


Stutter

by Luukiead



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angels mother fuckers, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I have better things to do with my time but I'm choosing this instead so be grateful, M/M, Maybe a little Eren/Armin/Mikasa angst.... maybe?, Research is hard, also the walls are forming a stupid religion thing, attack on titan - Freeform, i dont know how newspapers work, i dont like tags anymore, jeanmarco, oh so gay, so i guessed, such gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 100,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luukiead/pseuds/Luukiead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco has a stutter.<br/>Jean is not quite a jerk.<br/>They work at a conveniently named newspaper.<br/>Maybe they will do the do later on?</p><p>Yeah they will!</p><p>Basically just fluff. Good old fashioned vanilla and marshmallow.<br/>LEFT UNFINISHED FOR MAJOR EDIT. SEE CH17 AND 18. AN UPDATE ON THIS WILL BE MADE ON 15TH JANUARY INCLUDING THE LINK. I APOLGISE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCES THIS MAY HAVE CAUSED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh this is bad but heyyy.  
> AT LEAST IT'S NOT ON CRAPPYPASTA
> 
> IT MIGHT BE SOON THOUGH :D
> 
>  
> 
> Also rating will go up.

When someone tells you that you should write you become obligated to fulfill their wish. It may not be because you’re a good writer or because the story you have to tell is unbelievably interesting, but just because there is no other way to put how you feel other than by forming the twenty-six characters, ten numbers and fourteen punctuation marks into something worth reading. Sometimes, words on a page are just as strong as the words someone fills your ear with, and that’s especially comforting for someone who doesn’t have a voice strong enough to say what they want to out loud.

People like me, or like Jean, we can find it hard to put our thoughts into something others can comprehend without feeling off-put. When we cannot talk, we put our fingers to the cold plastic of the keyboard and type it out instead, just to prove that our words are as powerful as the spoken word of anyone else with a voice. The every-day conversation, sounding out so casually on the dirt streets in many tongues to many people only gets drowned out in the buzz of everyone else’s chat, and everyone else’s busy, noisy day. And yet, our silent words that sit so still on a slice of cheap paper hits thousands across the country, and the people who spend their waking hours with their tongues, forming the syllables of conversation, stop to see what is inscribed in black and white and take note of it above all else; above the words of their family, their colleagues and friends. The cold hard words relate to the cold hard truth in many minds.

This is why words are so wonderful; because even I, the stuttering small town gay man, can be noticed by the ordinary people of this daunting metropolis.

And no one can tell me that I don’t make sense.

**

So, this was where it all started.

I stood outside the formidable grey stone brick building on my first day with the red-tied, shiny-headed businessmen striding past at breakneck speed as they filtered into their respective buildings, town cars pulling up left, right, and centre as dark haired men pushed their way past my huddled, brown form.

I wore brown on my first day. Even I admit it wasn't a good choice. Brown doesn't exactly inspire confidence and inspiration into the hearts of men and women alike. But for today, I needed this ancient earthen jumper, the faint tinges of green and blue thread carefully woven through the oaken wool. This was my comfort jumper and any other piece of clothing would have left me too naked to say a word, the heavy weight that held my shoulders and hugged my waist kept me sane and protected from opinion. No matter what the tiny blonde receptionist’s downward expression told me as I made my way to her high desk, there was no other piece of clothing more suitable to keep me sane for my first day at ‘Daily Recon’ than this jumper.

“May I help you sir?” The deceptively soft voice called to me as I strode the few meagre paces towards the small girl.

“U- I, I-I um… I’m-mmm l-oo-o-o,“ _crap._  I searched the blackened glass desk for a scrap of paper and a pen, and seeing a notepad on the seamed boundary line between this petite girl’s desk and the dark haired woman’s next door, picked it up and scribbled a few words.

**I’m here to see Mr Ackerman at the Daily Recon.**

“Oh, Mr Bodt is it?” I nodded at the name, smiling weakly as she rose her small frame from her desk. “Good, you’re early. I’ll take you to see him now. I’m Krista Lenz.” She walked on towards an opaque-windowed elevator, and I followed a few paced behind, not bothering with trying to tell her the first name she probably already knew, and still with the notepad and pen in one hand, my black satchel slung over my right shoulder.

Of course, in the elevator I got the full ‘bad boss’ talk, explaining how the chief editor was a stickler for deadlines, kept the office in pristine condition, and kicked anyone out for using any phrases he considered to be informal or common lexis. Basically it meant he was a good boss who didn’t want his newspaper's name ran into the dirt by lazy journalists, and trusted editors like me to make sure things like that were kept far away from the public eye. As Krista carried on her speech, a few people got on at different floors and gave me sympathetic looks at the words “meeting with Mr Ackerman”, and even more frightened glares when she pointed to her watch and commented that it was four minutes to nine.

Luckily for me I was in his office thirty seconds short of the hour, the formal Krista abandoning me at the elevator so I could walk through the hall of barely-silent scribes until I reached the office of the head editor. As I opened the dark glass door, I looked in to see a tall-backed leather chair facing in the direction of the city-scape window that filled the whole back wall and curved in a graceful arch around the tear-shaped desk that had a rounded end faced horizontal towards the window, and where the stretched shape started to thin, the whole curved pane dropped into a wave of shining dark until it the sharp tip reached a single leather cushioned chair.

“Sit.” The monotone word ordered as it hid behind the bachelor leather. I obeyed and hurried myself onto the chair, swinging the satchel onto the ground beside me and resting the notepad onto my lap in preparation of my notes. The chair still spoke to me. “I heard from my boss that you don’t talk much.”

“Nnnnn-nn… nn-no, sss-“

The board of hide swung around to reveal a short man, one leg resting over the other with his arms folded defensively across his chest and sharp nose high, starting down at me with piercing steel and ivory, taking note of my catching voice. “Okay, enough of that. You haven’t even said a sentence and you’re annoying me.” Mr Ackerman uncrossed his arms and pulled himself closer to the reflective surface, completely symmetrical, even down to the fly-aways on his wrought-iron hair. I got that reaction a lot from people. It was frustrating for them as much as it was for me to hear the dumb mutter of my mouth. “Luckily enough for you, my boss likes you. If it were my choice, you wouldn’t be here.” A thin eyebrow rose at my faintly shocked expression. “From now on, you write everything you want to say, or nod, or shake or whatever you do. Your job is to check the six imbecile’s works before they report it to me. Although it’s my job to make sure that their final pieces are up to the high standards of Daily Recon, I cannot spend my time wandering around to check if they have the correct form of ‘their’ in every single article. Got it?”

I nodded a reply.

“Good. Now, whilst there are many people working on stories every day, I want you to concentrate on these six people for now.” A thick card file in a grim shade of dusky was handed to me across the desk and I took it, opening up the cover to reveal a photo and Times New Roman words. “All of these people are journalists, and most of them haven’t worked here any longer than two years, and have just gotten out of college or work experience. They’re babies.”  I gained a swift look up and down from the editor with welded eyes, “then again, neither are you. How old are you?”

I wrote down the numbers.

**28.**

“Excellent. You’re practically an old man compared to them. Now, the first person in your file is Connie Springer. He normally does entertainment, all that celebrity bullshit no-one really cares about.” I nodded, looking at the small photo of the almost-bald, slightly angry looking guy before flipping him down, face into the sick yellow of the folder as I moved to the next page, “then there’s Armin Arlert. Smart kid. Does most of the reviews for books and theatre. Eren Jaeger does television and celebrity bullshit. Reiner Braun, sports. Jean Kirshtein, does whatever the hell I tell him to, and so does Sasha Blaus, unless she’s eating in the office.”

I kept flicking through the pages of the file, keeping up with the words of the tiny man at the desk. Each face looked slightly bored, staring blankly at the camera, with the exception of Sasha, who had dark crumbs around her mouth as her cheeks bulged with whatever forbidden morsel she was eating.  Every sheet had some personal information and the hours they worked. I picked up the notepad again.

**Am I responsible for getting their corrected work to you on the deadline?**

“You are. Each person has a scheduled delivery time, making it easier for you to edit the work and find a suitable title. They are all on the sheets, but the last submit of work is seven thirty. Any later and you don’t get paid for that work.” At that, Mr Ackerman pushed a button underneath a stemmed microphone and seconds later, a crazy-eyed, long haired person walked in. “Take Marco to his desk.”

“Right away.” The person looked to me, holding the door open with one arm and flashing a toothy grin. I picked up my bag, giving one final nod-slash-bow to Mr Ackerman in the hope that it would be respectful enough to replace poorly spoken words before slipping out of the door, the person walking around me to lead the way as the door shut. “I’m Hanji. I edit too.”

I didn’t say a word. There was no way that I could write a decent reply whilst we walked at one hundred miles an hour across the office, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever say anything eloquently enough for Hanji to understand.

“Not much of a talker, hey? That’s good. It means you won’t get distracted.” They kept on smiling as they turned their head to me before rounding a sharp corner in the rows of desks and walking three down until we reached an empty desk containing a computer, desk, filing cabinet and desk. “This is it. Hey, don’t look like that, you can home it up a bit, well, just as long as it isn’t cluttered. Levi doesn’t like mess, so don’t let your work get everywhere. File it all.” I sat at the desk, putting my bag on the surface and turning to look at them. “So, look through that file. It’s super useful. You only have to be here on the days your people are here and if any more get added to that list, then you have to be here the days those people are around too. I’m pretty sure he’ll add some more people on for you in the next few weeks. And all work is sent by email. The journalist’s article idea is sent to Levi or Pixis for approval, and then once it’s written, it’s sent to you for the edit and layout. Any photos are attached onto a file. When you’re done, send it to Levi before the time's up.”

It was pretty simple stuff and followed exactly the same routine as my last job, so the procedure would be simple to remember.

 **Got it! Thank you.**  I wrote before showing my scrawl to them, and they smiled.

“You’re welcome sweetie. Holler if you need anything.” Hanji sauntered as though she had some way to go, but stopped barely a few desks down from me.

Of course I wouldn’t holler. That just wasn’t an option for me. I have a stutter, and a pretty bad one at that. Words were only real for me once they were in front of my eyes. There was no way I could say them out loud, at least, not in front of people and not properly. Even my mother never had the privilege of a full sentence spoken with ease. Anything that came from my mouth was forced unless I was alone with music blaring loud in my ears. I would catch on the vowels, drag out the ‘s’, frown at ‘w’, trip over ‘y’, and any other extended sound formed from a letter in the alphabet.

But at least I could write them down sufficiently.

I started off by flicking through the file and seeing what times and days each person would be at work and when their articles were due to be handed to me. Everyone was there on the Saturday, most on the Monday, Wednesday, and half on Friday. It seemed as though one or two only did contract work; lengthy pieces which would run over a two page spread about more controversial topics which took time to research and develop. I wrote each time into a diary I kept in my bag before turning on the computer.

An automatic email address was set up, my computer network account name given to me and one lonely message in the inbox. I opened it to find an email explaining when the articles were due to Mr Ackerman. These I also wrote down, and before I knew it, the time was ten in the morning.

I didn’t have to wait long for the first article, although it wasn’t what I was expecting. It was from Reiner Braun, and literally just a Word document, sentences almost in completely note form and barely any actual word craft. I was practically doing the work for him, not just checking it through.

_This one time, I’ll write. But if this happens again then I’ll go and-_

At this thought I stopped. I wasn’t sure quite what I’d do in that situation; I never had to really ever see the reporters at my last job. What could I do? I couldn’t storm down to wherever the writers were to complain at their shoddy workmanship, firstly because I had no clue where they were, and secondly because a man writing angry words onto a sheet of paper is not exactly intimidating, especially for a guy who looked as though he wrestled WWE players for fun (and that’s what the impression I got from just the _photo._ )

So I wrote this guy’s article for him, copying the words down into the actual programme he should have used and sizing it up to the word limit written at the top. Five hundred words on some boring football match. And by football I mean European football, not the wuss rugby they play in America.

By eleven fifteen I had completed writing and checking it through over and over as I proof-read for my own mistakes, following the words with my eyes as I traced the letters silently around the letters to see if it read well. Some slightly and disgustingly pun related title was pasted over the top in too-bold letters with the accompanying photo of a sweaty, sprinting man with an unfortunate face placed just off centre and the email was finally sent on, attached with the message, **sent article for approval.**

In the time it took for the next reply and in that time another message popped up. This wasn’t like the last one.

**To Marco Bodt,**

**I heard that you’re my new editor. Congratulations on getting the job here, and I hope that you enjoy it immensely and find the experience both informative and rewarding.**

**If you ever need to talk to me or anyone else about their work, do not hesitate to send an email, or pop down to floor three. I am at desk 306, and most others writing for you are in the same general area. Also, if you’re free at 12.30, I’d be more than happy to take you to lunch somewhere.**

**Regards,**

**Armin Arlert.**

I read it through before checking the folder quickly, putting the words to a face. Armin, a cute, childish looking man with ridiculously large and sweet blue eyes under a massive mop of gold and a weak smile plastered on his flushed lips.

I replied.

**Hi Armin,**

**Thank you very much for the kind words.**

**I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your lunch offer since I don’t have a scheduled lunch until two. However, I will come and say hello during a VDU break within the next hour or so, if that’s okay with you.**

I didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

 

**To Marco,**

**Fine by me. Visit at any time; I’ll be around until 6pm. See you soon.**

**From,**

**Armin Arlert.**

The small smile which had crept onto my face while reading the emails suddenly dropped as it was replaced with one thought: I’d have to speak.

Could I get away with just writing? Would he be impatient or rude about it?

The same questions I always asked myself were filtering back into my conscious stream as they seemed to do every time. I could never get away from them, no matter how much I tried, and no matter what I said to them. I never know what people truly think.

A new email popped up.

**Article approved.**

**Please print for filing.**

My first article for Daily Recon was done. I printed it off, before grabbing it hot off the press (bad pun both intentional and unintentional) and filing the single sheet it in the clanging cabinet by my desk. If I couldn’t speak, I would just have to show everyone that I could do my job just as well, if not better than anyone else. I would form the words on my page to surpass what came out of my mouth, what came out of everyone else’s mouths, until I could find the proper words to speak myself. And I would do it all quickly and efficiently too.

I had two more emails once I got back, both finished works that I had to edit. But I didn’t even look. I was scheduled a government-issued fifteen minute break and now was a good a time as any to attempt to say hello to new people.

 

**

It was barely lunch time, but the gurgling in my stomach had already started, although perhaps not for all of the reasons you’d think.

Truth be told, I was very nervous. No, more than nervous; petrified, because I’d most likely have to explain everything again to people I didn’t know. As I got to the perfectly clean, dark glass of the elevator, crammed with several other people I breathed deeply, taking the air in through my nose for five seconds before slowly releasing it over eight as I stepped in as held up three fingers when someone asked me what floor I was heading to, and I wondered how this new group of people would take it. Most people were shocked, which is understandable. Some had been worse. Some had been incredibly hostile.

People filtered in and out on every floor. All I concentrated on was making sure I got out at the right stop, and that the numbers 306 were permanently plastered in my memory. Even as the door slid open with a bored female voice announcing the third floor I kept them in my mind.

_What if they laugh at me for not talking, what if they think I’m weird and I end up like last time? 306. And if they start like they did last time 306 what then? Do I move on again? Do I, 306, do I stick around and wait to see if it passes? 306. Should I just give up now? And if I should, why am I still walking?_

My feet moved still, hoping to carry me forward into something better than what I had before this city and this job. Luckily for me, each high walled booth was labelled brightly with white number, the first row starting with 301 and the second with 305 as the head sitting central to the wide, generic office room. I carried on down that path looking into the blank square room-lets until I spotted a bob of blond, head swaying from side to side as thin, lithe fingers tapped at the black keys of a computer as though composing a symphony.

I couldn’t bring myself to cough or speak, so I took a fist to the wall and took three muffled taps against the felted screen.

“Oh,” the bobbing stopped, and the man I knew as Armin- and as a journalist- swung around on his chair, standing up and raising his right hand out to me in one smooth motion, “you must be Marco.” I nodded as we split our hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I-ii…” I wasn’t doing this again.

And then I remembered. I had stupidly left the notepad on my desk. My automatic reaction was to slap one palm onto my forehead in a display of my complete stupidity before weakly attempting to reply, Armin’s eyes widening at the unusual reaction, “I-i…..y-yooo-u t-t-ooo.”

“Hey. No need to be so nervous.” I smiled weakly at the sympathetic face, the sky eyes slowly relaxing, before looking quickly around the small room, and spotting a piece of paper on the desk I pointed at it questioningly. “I’m sorry?”

I retracted the pointed finger and pulled it back to wave a scribbling motion across my other palm.

“Oh sure you can write on it.” A pursed smile spread across my lips as I reached out towards the paper, plucking a pen from a tied bundle sitting in a ‘do you bite your thumb at us, sir?’ mug and wrote a few explanatory words, leaning over my notes.

**I’m sorry. I have a stutter.**

A head peeked over my shoulder at the scrawl. “Oh no, I’m sorry I didn’t realise. Uh, who else are you editing for? I’ll get them over to say hi if you want.”

I wrote down the names I remembered from the short list. **Sasha, Reiner, Jean, someone beginning with a C- he was bald in the photo I had, and someone else I can’t remember the name of.**

“Connie?” I nodded at the half-remembered name, “what did the other person look like?”

**Brown hair, sort of long.**

“Eren. Sure I’ll go grab who’s here.” Armin disappeared around the corner of the little room leaving me alone but only seconds later a towering Arian blond man, formidable, tight muscle wrapped in an even tighter t-shirt, grin on his lips.

A large hand gripped mine and pumped it several times with great ferocity. “Hey, you must be the editor. I’m Reiner.”

“M-mm-ah-ahhh-r-c-o.”  _So this was the guy that sent me that fractured article_ , I briefly noted. He was also apparently intent on giving me a fractured wrist as well.

“Hey, no need for the nerves, dude,” for the second time in only a few minutes I shook my head quickly, pointing to the words I’d already written on the paper and he stared at them for a moment. “You have a stutter?”

“He has a stutter?” an excited girl’s voice repeated, the high pitch ringing out across the room, and I almost shrank away at the sound. I guessed this must have been Sasha. But before I knew it, I had an arm around me, pulling me into a firm hug, the sounds of chewing loud in my ear and walnut hair blanketing my eyes. “Ohhhh sweetie you’re just so cute. How am I supposed to deal with an adorable stutter as well?”

“I don’t think one of your bear hugs is going to help him, though.” Another voice, a reasonably short, almost bald man with wide eyes and a crumpled black ACDC shirt walked in and leant on the wall. “I’m Connie.”

“He’s Marco.” Reiner butted in, “he’s got a stutter.”

This was how it normally was when I told people. They felt obligated to explain for me, when all I wanted to do was tell them myself. Although, it was easier for them to know earlier so that I didn’t have to explain later there was always a period of time when others would talk for me instead of realising that I’d coped all my life and could cope now too.

“How long have you had the stutter?” Sasha asked as Armin stepped into the, now crowded, office space.

I leant down to the piece of paper as Armin spoke to me calmly through the buzzing excitement of the others. “Jean and Eren are out, but they’ll be around later.”

**Since I could talk… and thanks for letting me know, Armin.**

A small “you’re welcome” was barely heard around the shocked shouts of the three excitable, childish adults, “seriously? What so you’ve always had a stutter- are you serious- aww poor baby.”

I just nodded. The three people all spoke at once as I braced myself against the desk half expecting either Sasha or Connie to leap onto me and ask unwanted questions. Armin just smiled weakly and rolled his eyes, mouthing ‘just ignore them, they’re exited,’ as their voices babbled ceaselessly, confirming that Armin, despite looking as though he just turned eighteen, was more mature than the troublesome trio put together. I just sat and tried to reply the best I could with the piece of paper for a few minutes until, eventually, Armin thankfully broke their verbal probing.

“That’s enough. Uh, you should probably get back to work, right? Levi’s your boss isn’t he?” I nodded as Armin cut through the babble of voices until they stopped in absolute silence., their owl-eyed faces finally coming to a quiet halt.

“Yeah dude get back in there, or he’ll eat you,” even Reiner looked mildly scared. The low rumble of his flat voice made me unsure of whether he was joking or not. I wrote down a few words.

**See you around. It’s nice to meet you all.**

“Bye Marco,” they all called as I walked out of the room, my words left behind on someone else’s desk.

**

The ride back up to my floor was quiet. There was no one else in the lift with me and, for some strange reason, I pondered over Jean’s name. When I had first seen it written out, I had thought it was said how it was spelt. But no; instead it sort of rolled off of the tongue, almost like a breath out instead of a word when it had been spoken.“Jszahn.” I tried it out. The word was incredibly easy. I tried another name, “Ar…Arm-min.” There was a difference. The French hint turned the name into an exhale that formed a word.

I couldn’t help but say it over and over again, even quietly as I got out of the lift, like breathing out heavily with the tint of language; a language that wasn’t even my own. I walked through the room of bustling workers, picking out my desk in the midst of many and turned on the computer again.

The two emails I had abandoned earlier still waited patiently on the screen.

One was from Connie, an approved piece of writing similar to the one received from Reiner in both style and length. But the other wasn’t the same.

It took a short while for the file to completely load up due to its ridiculously oversized nature and when it did, there were at least seven full pages of writing with ridiculous images and titled “Why Jean Kirshtein is so much fucking better than Eren Jaeger at everything” and underneath that, a small approved message that replicated the one indicating approval. This time, I was almost completely sure it wasn’t real.

I replied to the email.

**I’m not editing this or sending it to Mr Ackerman.**

**Marco Bodt.**

There was a quick reply.

**Come on, please?**

**-J**

**No.**

**Marco Bodt.**

**Fine. Just edit it and send it back to me.**

**-J**

I took a few moments, saving the document to the computer before opening it up again and deleting all of the text. I went onto google and pulled up a ‘NO’ meme of the grumpy looking bald circle face with an oversized, overhanging nose and stuck it in the file, still titled ridiculously with the self-righteous and callous statement. I saved it again under a slightly reformed but still similar name before sending it back.

It only took a minute.

**That’s just mean, Marco. I thought you’d be a cooler guy than this.**

**-J**

A file was attached and I opened it up. A picture of an incredibly distraught looking Jon Snow staring miserably into the camera sat on the screen. I helplessly stifled a laugh and a few people swiveled their chair to look at me.

I typed back quickly, wanting to do some actual editing before I appear like a slacker.

 

**Winter is not coming.**

**Get back to doing proper work.**

**Marco.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pish posh.  
> Pish posh.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm off for nosh.
> 
> I hope it's okay though. This wasn't supposed to be the first thing up, but the other JM I'm working on is currently at 80,000 words and they haven't gotten around to doing the do yet, so this one will be up sooner as the smut will arrive quicker.
> 
> Also there will be references. Many. I started with incredibly unsubtle GOT but it will get worse. I want a whole chapter with quotes from Fall Out Boy songs... because I can.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	2. Jean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean goes on a story hunt.
> 
> He's going to write a big one.
> 
> What a horrible day.
> 
> Until later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't exactly know what I was expecting when uploading the last bit (which I totally fucking forgot to write that it was chapter one, so now it's just a random floaty lump at the start- whoop de doo) but the reaction for it was not bad at all! :D
> 
> Also, the religion thing takes pretty much is half ripped from SNK and blended with whatever my tiny mind could imagine/ steal from other religions. 
> 
> And Jean isn't a fully fledged jerk, but he is a dork.

Listen, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t be writing this. Marco just wants me too because in the few days it took for us to actually meet, he did very little and I also apparently 'need a hobby that doesn't involve fictional characters from a TV show' or something along those lines.

In those few days between the start and the week and the end, Marco, like the the freckled messiah he is, he did all of his work, submitted it in on time and even got himself a few more people to work for. The only interactions we had in those few days were in email form, and apart from the incident we now refer to as the ‘Jean Turns Into an Idiot When Arguing With Eren Occurrence,’ we only exchanged actual work related messages.

However, whilst Marco was busy dossing around in the warm, boring confines of the office, I was out on the cold, hard streets of Trost, gathering information from a source in the city. This was one of the best cases I had been given in a while.

 One day, a lady rang into the office claiming that she had gone to a "witch doctor" downtown who was a famous underground healer. She had cancer and had been told she would die. Desperate and on her last legs, she went to this shady guy in a dirty back alley store. When she turned up, the man gave her something incredibly suspicious- she claimed that he had given her actual human fingers, blackened in a mixture of caramelised and sickly darkness which, when brewed in water and drunk, would completely cure her... or so he said.

Of course the bad shit crazy old hag was suspicious and scared. But like every other person in the city who was slightly desperate for fame or even money, she selfishly went to us rather than the police who -and this is just a _sneaking_ _suspicion- might_ be able to do something about it.

And then we helpfully rang the police instead because the public are lazy bastards like that sometimes.

I had been following this case for a little under a week; from the phone call, to the police investigation into her, to now, the cops raiding the store. I was waiting around in a dark-ass alleyway with Eren, scribbling notes in preparation for the two page spread I would get in the smack-bang centre of the newspaper. He got the stupid side column that went along with it; only two hundred words of background information of the main suspects, and like hell he wasn’t happy.

“Why did you get the good bit?”

“Because I can actually write,” I quipped, half pleased that I was pissed off enough about the freezing wind to think of something grating to say.

“Fuck you horse-face.” Touché. We stood on the wrong side of the police tape, too far away from the action to actually see anything interesting. Not that much had happened. The cops had already bashed down the door, carved with symbols and mahogany brown in colour, but now it was almost silent and had been for almost an hour.

The time was approaching for their return.

In anticipation for the onslaught of men in black holding suspects and evidence in bags, I put one hand in my jean pocket, palming the brick-like shape and feeling the worn down buttons of the voice recorder, ready to slam down the big red button and whip it out so I could shove it under some unsuspecting person’s nose. The questions were already swimming in my head as the first person walked out.

All at once, the seven other reporters standing around me started shouting out the questions I wanted to ask, not getting a reply from the man who kept his eyes to the ground. No comment then from the head of the operation.

Soon after that there came a flood of other people holding yellow bags, which were most definitely filled with the goodies I wanted to know about.

“What did you find?” I and a few other people called out over the flimsy barrier.

“It’s pointless being here. They aren’t going to tell anyone now.” I ignored Eren, the unwanted voice of reason on this trip. I  just hoping that I could get something new and exciting. I wanted them to drag a person out, face revealed so that I could dig my way into trying to put a name to the criminalised eyes of the suspect.

“Did you find who you were looking for?” a few random people shouted, including myself.

“No suspects were found on sight.” A call from one policeman. “We are still searching for the people thought to be responsible.”

Eren turned to me, his mouth buried into a red scarf. “We aren’t going to get anything. The best we can do is re-cap.”

“But that’s what everyone else will do now.” I snapped at Eren who dig his face deeper into the red as his eyes creased, “the only lead we have is that old biddy who's half dead, and the fact that they gave her something- hell we aren't even sure what it is- but they took is so that makes a story, right? It's fucking blabbing time, or I'm gonna have to search like a bitch to find anything in time.”

The waiting cars filled with officers and evidence were starting to pull away, reporters gathering around the tinted windows as the questions piled up. I stayed standing in the small column I had stood in for this whole waiting game.

They had evidence. They had the evidence I wanted, but what was it?

“Eren. What sort of healing were they supposed to have done?”

“Work of the Goddesses.”

“So what sort of stuff do they use, normally anyway.”

“The research I got was that it was mostly herbs, natural ingredients but nothing like what that woman said.” I pondered for a moment at Eren's words.

The idea of artificial heat seemed so inviting in the almost winter weather. My desk called for me with the promise of strong tea and stashed biscuits... and, of course the chance to follow up on leads. I turned to Eren, “we’re going back. I want to find a list of natural healers in the city. I wonder if this place has a reputation with them.”

**

In the end I completely gave up on that story, asking if I could do some side tracking, bullshit paranoid theorizing/ incredibly risky ranting instead. And due to my superior writing skills and dare-devil reputation, Pixis let me.

It wasn’t plain sailing on this story though. Let me tell you now that when people don’t want to be found in this city, they sure as hell don’t want to be found. I was trying my hardest to find at least one name on the internet, in the phone book, hell in the newspaper itself, that had some link to this witchcraft shit, and I even graced the pages of Facebook for some random crazy fifty year old lady who made a page to ‘connect to the people and spread the word of the Goddesses’. Hell, I was going through fortune tellers to see if anyone had a clue who I could go to.

There was only one place. The only place actually open enough to answer any of my questions, and publicly crazy enough not to be trusted as a source.

The phone was ringing for a straight minute before anyone picked up. “Hello?”

“Is this Madame Rose?” I asked with my formal voice initiated.

A reasonably young and pleasant tone drifted down the line, and I was faintly surprised, half expecting the voice of an older lady “it is. How may I help you?”

“I’m Jean, a journalist for the Daily Recon, and I’m currently running a story on a certain downtown store that was raided by police today, Black's. Would you know anything about that store?”

The phone was silent for a few seconds, until a quiet whisper from the phone snuck into my ear, “I won’t say anything over the phone, but I know what you’re talking about. I’ll give you the address to my shop, little lamb.” I ignored the condescending nickname and wrote down the words as she slowly spoke them and I told her that I would be there as soon as possible, but before she left she warned me, “don’t talk to anyone on the way down here. That place you want to know about is dangerous, and there are people watching.”

Shit. I hadn’t exactly thought this far; I half expected the person to slam the phone down as though I was selling solar panels in a blizzard. I shrugged off her paranoia and my own unjustified self satisfaction. “I won’t Madame. I will see you soon.”

I ended the call, switching off my computer and calling Pixis from across the box room to tell him that I was heading out for a while. He shouted back in confirmation and I left.

**

This part of town was an absolute mess. I always attempted to stay away from these streets, well known for being rough and scattered with drug dealers and pimps. Yet, in the middle of the disgusting black buildings, their facades smeared with the grime of exhaust fumes, this place was clean.

Flowers ran outside of the polished windows through which I could see lace curtains and dream catches and the walls were whitewashed, plaster bumped and lumped with age. There was no sign but a small bronze plaque inscribed with the name I already knew; ‘Madame Rose, Sister of the Three Goddesses’ was pasted next to the beech wood door. I stepped inside, a bell ringing out into the bright room.

Surprisingly, it was incredibly pretty in here and not the clusterfuck of gems and other crap i was expecting. The walls were white, lined with shelves holding neatly placed jars through which the light reflected and cast shining lines along the clean surfaces like crystal. There was an ancient till in the far right corner next to which two incense sticks burnt; jasmine and musk.

“Hello,” I called, “Are you here, Madame Rose?”

“I’ll be out in a second.” The voice sung out from behind a beaded curtain and I waited, putting my hands in my pockets and letting the weight of my backpack sit heavily on the centre of my back. It took a minute, the sound of glass clicking together in a strange, round vibration and an occasional shout before a tiny figure popped her head out from through the beads, happy face dropping at the sight of me, eyes squinted. “Oh my, you shine so brightly.”

I blushed at those words, unsure of what they quite meant, and pulled one hand from my pocket to offer it to her. “Madame Rose? I’m Jean, the reporter you spoke to over the-“

“Oh aren’t you wonderful? You have such a lovely colour and your angel is so handsome.” Her hand reached to mine, but instead of shaking it as I expected, she gripped my wrist and flipped my palm so that she could see the deep wrinkles. “Your lines are so wonderful. You’re a very lucky man, even if you weren’t at first, you will be. You were sick when you were younger, but you got better.”

“I wouldn’t say sick,” I mused.

“But it wasn’t healthy. It destroyed your life.”

“You could say-“

“That’s sickness. Even if it doesn’t make you ill, the life you lead is part of your soul, and if something affects you life that badly, then it makes your mind ill and therefore you. Tell me what it was.”

“Tourette’s.”

Her eyes shined at me and I couldn’t help but look back into the deep blue pools that radiated innocence and knowledge. No wonder she and the other sisters had gained such a following. These eyes were the eyes of a friend, someone who could stare into your soul and not tell another human of what they saw there. “And then you had an accident. There’s a line across your path early on.  You were close to death. But you ended up better than before; it changed the part of you that affected your life.”

Had she done research on me? The words she spoke were completely true. I had a car accident when I was nineteen and was in hospital for weeks. When I woke up, the ticks and furious swearing I had been cursed with had stopped, the part of my brain I had hit had changed me; I no longer suffered. I could be normal.

“How did you know?”

“The lines and the angel. They say a lot about you. Your angel is very wonderful and he smiles as widely as he can all the time at how happy you have become and how happy you will be.”

I was getting distracted, but the way she spoke was so warm and interesting. This tiny lady, large grey eyes and auburn hair wrapped up into a multi-coloured scarf that sat atop her head, clothed in a long dress that just revealed her bare feet , meaning that her tiny body naturally only reached as high as my chest, smiling so brightly as her eyes flicked from my palm to my face to just behind my head. “Madame, I’m afraid that whilst all of this is lovely, I need to ask you a few questions.”

At that her eyes snapped back to focus just on my face. “Ah, I’m sorry. Of course you do. I’ll grab some chairs.” She let me go, her cool hands leaving hot traces on my palm as she wandered into the back before quickly popping back with one fold up chair tucked under each arm. I rushed over to take them both off of her, putting the legs of one down to unfold it and then doing the other, both chairs facing each other. “You are kind.” She sat down on one and I on the other. I pulled off the backpack, and sat it on my lap, pulling out a notepad and pen.

“Madame Rose-“

“Call me Rose.” She smiled, and I returned it, putting the bag on the floor.

“Rose, what do you know of Black’s on thirty-fourth?”

 Her eyebrows sagged slightly, “can I ask you a question first?” Out of courtesy, I nodded for her to continue. All these years had taught me that your interviewee needs to feel as comfortable as possible for you to get the most out of them, even if that involves a welcome distraction for them. “How much do you know about the three Goddesses?”

It was a reasonable question for Rose; it gave her an insight on how much I knew about her and trusted her. “I know the following has grown in the past few years, and I know that they do a lot of charity work.”

“For you to understand what I know you want to know, you must know that I am a priestess who took the name of Goddess Rose in her honor to look after the city she herself once defended. I do not lie under my oath to the goddesses or to you. My sisters and I defend the goddesses good names and the angels that serve us.”

“Did the store on thirty-fourth have anything to do with the... the goddesses?” I asked and Rose shook her head.

“The only priestess of the Goddesses in this city is me, and the closest others are my sisters; one in Shiganshina and the other in Mitras. All others are part of another cult. That one was alone in its following.”

“Were you aware that they used your religion as a cover then?” my pen was resting on the paper and if she spoke the words I wanted to hear then I would perhaps jot something.

“I had been informed. But the people who are serious about the Goddesses know to come to me alone. At one time, I suppose it was a lot easier to hide things like that from me because there used to be a lot more shops like mine in that area, but they’ve kicked most of them out by now. Many of them took some of the treatments we use, if not more, for their own use. But that shop was different. The sort of things they use for healing are pretty potent unlike most others, and any shop too close also becomes tainted.”

“How is it tainted?” I wrote the word I repeated, followed by a question mark.

“With dark energy. What they do there isn’t any sort of dark magic I encountered before now. The people I learnt from never told me that something so nasty still existed. The best thing to do is keep away.” I scribbled down what she said in short-hand, not quite sure that I understood what she was telling me. i couldn't really write this thing in the newspaper without fear of appearing crazy.

“So what they use their, to heal people, isn’t like what you would use here?”

“Goodness no. The things I use are all plants, roots, prayers. They are natural and have been used for hundreds of years, and used by the Goddesses themselves. This is new stuff. They mess around too much with the ingredients until it’s no longer natural. They create compounds like pharmacists create drugs.” I took a few seconds to jot something down and copying the words over twice until they were dark on the page, **are they creating homemade drugs?**

“Do you know who runs the place?”

“He was just known as Black. No one saw him really. The only way you could get appointments was through one of his people and by handing over a lot of money. You don’t go to someone like him because you want to heal; you go to him because you’re lost and desperate, and because a store like mine seems unapproachable when it is the complete opposite.”

I was wondering how much of this I could use. Whilst I was rather open to understanding the beliefs of others (I had learnt to do this after I awoke from my accident; having an experience like that leaves you open to believe anything) but I wasn’t so sure I could write about ‘dark energy’ and ’the three Goddesses’ in one of the largest newspapers in the country. “Do you have any clue of the treatments they use?”

“I heard of the story of the lady with the fingers, but there was someone else. A client of a healer who used to live in Trost came to me one day with a root that Black had given her. She had depression and had tried everything. She went to him, but a few days later came to me, saying that she felt like she was going to die and she wanted to thank her angel and ask for forgiveness from the Goddesses. She didn’t want to hurt herself anymore because she didn’t have long left; she wanted to be happy. I tried to heal her, but she died a few days later.”

“She died after taking his treatment?” I took down notes. “What was the name of this lady?”

“Goddesses forgive me, but I can’t even remember. It was a few years back now, a lady with dark hair and an ageing angel with the name Alisse.” The largest lead I had gotten was thrown out of the window and replaced with a bunch of useless garbage. I could search for a name, look through death records to find one that matched, hope that they did an autopsy, but without that I truly had nothing other than theories. “But she died after taking it, yes. Her mind was poisoned. She was pale, hadn’t eaten or drank or slept for days; she was delirious. Yet she lived more within her mind in those last hours than in a long time.”

“What about the plant. What was it?”

“A root. I always suspected that it was belladonna, but I wasn’t sure.”

 **Belladonna.** I could look up symptoms on my own. “What would you use that for, normally?”

“You wouldn’t really. None of my recipes call for it. In the past, the very distant past, I have heard that it was used for the hallucinations or as a way for rich women to kill abusive husbands; but only the berries normally. This was a root which is uncommon, and definitely processed until it was black in colour.” I wrote down a few words on the piece of paper, unable to think of anything else to say. I concentrated on the page, Rose’s eyes trained on me as I wrote. “I can’t help but smile when I look at you,” she almost whispered, her voice lowered now, “I know this is very serious and people are being affected, but people like you, people who butt their nose in to try and find the truth are incredibly underrated. Even if you get a bad name, even if people say you are a nuisance or that what you say is nonsense, you still write it because people are getting hurt. That is such a wonderful thing, the Goddesses appreciate it.”

“I do it because it needs doing. If there is no one to tell people what is happening, most don’t have the time to find out.” I shut the notepad so that the blue cover snapped over the words I’d written. “Thank you so much Rose, you’ve been a great help.” I was unsure whether those words were true or not.

“Don’t mention it. There is little I can do but pass on information. But as a favour, don’t mention that I told you this. Black is a formidable man, and he could easily find me if he wanted and my sisters and I need to protect our people and ourselves as much as we can.”

“I won’t say a word. I really appreciate this.” I stood up, reaching out a hand to shake hers and she took it, the bright smile still on her face.

“I’d love you to come back at some point and tell me about what’s going on with your life. Your angel is telling me so many lovely things and I want to see them come true; the Goddesses smile down upon you.”

I smiled out of courtesy, curious and unnerved by what she said. “And I would like to find out a bit more about that angel you keep going on about.”

“You will little lamb.” I picked up the backpack, almost wincing at the stupid nickname and turned to leave the store as Rose called to me, “take care of yourself, and don’t look at him.”

It took me a few seconds of me standing outside the shop to think of those words.

_Don’t look at him? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_

I started to head back to Recon, fairly certain I had a basis to go on, a place to start to create something at the very least interesting. The few notes I had written were so much more valuable than anything else I had gained in the hour on the street. This was new information. There had been another person who went to that store, someone who had died as a result of it and no one had known. I had an idea of what might be going on there, and it was closer than I or any other journalist had come to finding an answer.

**

I was writing for a very long time. The time was six fifteen and I still hadn’t written everything, knowing that I had to send it off soon for editing. But I was taking my sweet-ass time, powering through the final few hundred words and ignoring the ping of emails that were coming through on my computer, making sure that what I had written was both deceptively informative and inventive. These were new ideas that I had written; nothing like I had done before on this story, but really it was mostly speculation. Rose’s notes were of great help, and in the end I had an article that pushed further in this story than any other likely written on this topic today.

Most of the others had gone home by now, sending their final pieces to editors and five thirty or earlier. Only a few stragglers like me, Armin and a few older staff members floated around, trying to get a head start on their Saturday piece along with cleaners who were making their way around the room with hoovers and bottles of sprays.

I was typing furiously now, hoping to get the last few words done by twenty past, and a check through done by half past. It wasn’t fair to leave it this late. I knew I could get the editor in trouble, and with Levi as his boss, it was a greater possibility that it wouldn't just be shrugged off.

A few voices sounded from the front of the room, but I paid no notice, even when footsteps drew closer to my booth. “E-eee-xc..ccus-sse m-mmmm-me.” I didn’t turn at the quiet, drawn out voice. Instead I carried on staring at the screen as I typed, desperate to get it done.

“What is it?”

“Iii wa-a-as w-wwon-nder-rrinng wh-en y-you’d b…be d-d-don-ne wi-“

“Not long. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get out of the way so you can clean.”

“No, i-it’sss… n-not t-that. I’mm thh-e edi.. editor a-annd I-“

“It’s okay, I’m finished it now.” I saved the file, quickly attaching it to an email, sending it off before turning around to see a tall man with dark hair and wide, almost black eyes standing nervously in the entrance to the mini room, twisting his fingers together as he looked at me, unblinking and frail like a deer. It was strangely endearing _and cute_. “I’m Jean, by the way.”

“M-mmmm….. Mmmma-aa…Mmmaaar-“

“Marco?” he nodded at the name and suddenly I remembered a conversation I had heard Eren having with Armin. “You’re my editor, right?” he nodded again, small smile on his bowed lips and I noticed the dash of freckles that ran over his face threatened to sprinkle the pink skin there. I rubbed the back of my neck at my tense muscles. “Yeah, sorry to keep you waiting, I had a rough day and it took me longer to get anything interesting for the story.”

“T-thhhhh-a-aa-…..” the word we both knew he wanted to say just wouldn’t come out of him mouth, lips trembling around the ‘a’ and not quite reaching the other ‘t’ that he needed. He kept stopping, retrying the letters that caught in his throat and seemed to choke him. Eventually he managed a “tha-aa-aa-t’ss o-oo-k-ka-aay.” I kept my face neutral, half understanding what he felt. It’s not a nice feeling to be judged because sometimes the words don’t come out how you expect them to.

I felt bad for the guy, not because of the problem he seemed to have when talking, but because I'd made him wait around just to get my work done. “Seriously though, formal apology. I’ll take you to eat somewhere to make up for it.” I picked by bag up from the floor before I started to walk out of the tiny block of a room, making my way towards the elevator and leaving Marco to walk behind me. I wasn’t even quite sure why I was doing it, but hey, I was hungry and I needed to pay this guy back for my being a douche somehow. “I’ll wait around with you if you want.”

“Y-y-you d-d-oo-oon-n’t ha-aa-ave t-to.” I could hear him walk behind me.

“No. You’re going to accept my offer. I don’t mind waiting around for you to edit my work. Actually it will be nice to see how crap you think it is.” I was putting my foot down and I pressed the button to the elevator and waited, Marco pulling up beside me and I turned to look at his slightly flushed face, smiling gently and dark eyes shining. I didn't exactly think he would try to argue too much, so I was glad for his reply.

“Th-thhha-annn-nks Jszahn.” I smiled back, glad that he had said the pronunciation of my name correctly, but even better was the way that he said it with such ease, like it was natural. That was nice to hear. Some words were easy for him, and I was strangely glad that one of them was my name.

The doors pinged and we stepped inside, Marco pressing the eighth floor button and I threw him a small, unseen smile. He may not know, but I understood more than he gave me credit for. The silence we shared was definitely not awkward, at least for me, because I knew it's presence meant that we had something in common. We both knew how debilitating words could be. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done. 
> 
> And thank you to my friends who screamed in my ear when I told them that part of this was uploaded... i now have tinnitus.
> 
> Next chapter in a couple of days, from Marco's POV. 
> 
> After that, uploads will get a bit sporadic due to exams. I will try to get the one after up by the end of the week, but I have a Eurovision party on Saturday as well as work so it may fall into the next week. But I will try my damnedest.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	3. Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! The classic Jean/Marco/Pizza situation. Although pizza is not so much of a prominent feature. Maybe later...  
> Which leads me onto the idea of a pizza sex scene because now I totally want to. Is M/M/IBBFCICATPAOYS an option  
> (Italian Bread Based Food Covered In Cheese and Tomato Paste and Other Yummy Shit- yeah I know.)  
> Stupid banter.  
> Weak attempts at humor.  
> Lots of eye description because EYES ARE PERTY.  
> (Also the end note is ridiculous. I was writing at three in the morning, so I went on a tiny rant and now I don't have the heart or the motivation to change it.)  
> I won't upload the next chapter until next week due to exams and the fact I haven't finished writing it yet. It will definitely be out by next Saturday though.
> 
> Cross my heart and hope to die, stick 3DMG in my eye.

Luckily for Jean and me, his work was pretty immaculate and all I had to do was stick the many words he had written into the programme, find a suitable stock photo that would fit the piece, title it, and send it off. It was an interesting work; an opinionated article speculating the creation of deadly homemade ‘cures’ made by the small downtown shop Black’s’ that had been in the news recently for rumours for giving a lady with cancer human fingers as a cure. However Jean hadn't focused much on this fact and had instead talked of the mysterious sticky substance the 'fingers' were drenched in. Supposedly, an unnamed woman went to the same store a few years ago to retrieve a cure with a very similar tar coating, and had died a few days later and he suggested that this coating was some sort of toxin that eventually kills a person if ingested.

Of course, it was not an informative piece by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly an exciting topic and one that would be very likely to attract a lot of attention. People love paranoid speculation, even if it turn out that the direction it pointed in was completely to the south.

I had the email sent by seven twenty-four, and Jean had waited with me the entire time, not saying a word or waiting for me to start the conversation. He was happy just to watch as I worked, but I felt awful knowing that he was doing it just because he felt that he owed me. He didn't have to pay me back for anything; close deadlines and stress were part of the job description.

 “I know this great Italian place around the corner. The pizza is really good.” Jean's silence husked voice broke the office evening quiet and my body flinched at the sudden mental interruption. I had my reply in mind, but the sounds didn’t exactly want to come out of my mouth.

Luckily for me, the notepad I had accidentally stolen (I’d have to buy another one to make it up to Christa) from front desk was still sitting by my computer in case an emergency conversation was needed. I wrote on it quickly.

**You don’t have to take me anywhere; waiting around for me was kind enough.**

He looked quickly down at the paper before directing his words at me, eyes bright and playful under the unnatural light, smirking as he spoke “no, seriously don’t sweat it. You are going to eat pizza and god dammit I will pay for that pizza.”

**You don’t have to pay.**

“I will pay. I almost made you late, so I owe you one.” Jeans smile grew wider, and I couldn’t help but blush at the dorky grin. The picture I had been given didn’t do the guy justice; his autumnal maelstrom eyes were so much nicer in reality and his cutting bone structure was enviable. He wasn’t as tall as I was, but he was lanky in an elegant way, the white shirt he was wearing done up only to the penultimate button so that the stiff collar fell wide open and the curve of his pale collarbones peeked out from under his neck. I had to admit that although he wasn’t my usual type, he was at least a seven (wink-wink). “You ready?”

There was no way Jean was going to let me worm out of his offer so I just nodded, shutting down the computer and throwing the notepad and pen into my satchel as the ancient box whirred to a halt before I lifted the heavy black bag over my head so that the single strap lay diagonally from my left shoulder to my right hip. I didn’t even give the grumpy editor in me a chance to reply.

Jean chucked the convenient yet outmoded backpack he had brought up from downstairs on, making sure both straps were not twisted painfully against his shoulders. He did it the proper way, not hanging off over one shoulder like most people had it so that the dead weight eventually curved the spine and gave a horrific back ache that many school ‘friends’ now suffered from. The way Jean wore it was the way you were supposed to wear a backpack, which was both very nerdy and quirky in a world of lazy people that sheepishly followed the back breaking trend.

We walked in silence out of the almost empty office and to the elevator not bothering to make useless conversation that I couldn’t keep up with.

 _He must know_ , I thought, _that I’ve got a stutter. The others probably told him and that’s why he’s acting so normal about it._

Still I didn’t mind. I preferred this to a constant reminder that I struggled to talk, or writing the words on a piece of paper like I was passing notes like a thirteen year old. He had never asked me why I didn’t talk, and I didn’t want to mention anything about it if no questions were asked. The week had been filled with enough awkward and repetitive questions that I’d rather never have to talk of again, and Jean was a welcoming break from the mind-numbing chatter of the other editors.

We managed to get the whole way to the tiny restaurant nestled into an old cobble street ten minutes away from work in complete comfortable silence. The whole way through the bustling Friday night scenes, we remained undisturbed.

The party goers were already starting to appear, heading to booming clubs and bars that were bursting at the seams. It didn’t help that there were some universities around this area, and Friday night was pub crawl night. The men and women that lined the streets were my age, if not younger, and acted it; drinking loudly and standing around with the metaphor ash dripping onto their shoes as they forgot to take a drag. This was how I was supposed to be. My free time was meant to be spent with people, and creating memories, not sitting in my flat reading or writing or watching. I wondered briefly if I had ever acted my age, gone out drinking simply to get drunk, or if I was in a perpetual state of boring old man; constantly contemplating my existence like a Greek scholar. I answered my own question.

 It took the entire journey to the 'little Italia' restaurant, red brick walls poxed with black boards with almost illegible scrawls all over them, before a single word was said by either one of us. And the only words were “two, please,” spoken to the awaiting hostess along with a small two fingered gesture.

A dark haired lady took us to a booth, the room and the seats incredibly red, as though someone decided to model the entire place on the insides of a gothic, Victorian love nest. “I don’t think they thought out the colour scheme very well in here," Jean muttered the remark as our eyes adjusted to the claret bloodbath that was the interior decorating. The subdued lighting reflected mutely off of the dark bare wood flooring and from the blank window panes and fake red lipped roses adorned the greyed metal chandeliers and the centre of the tiny tables.

_Truly, the carpets do match the drapes; neither exists in such a place._

I laughed at Jean’s quiet comment; one of the only sounds I made that didn’t involve me stumbling around uselessly.  At first, Jean seemed rather shocked at my surprisingly outburst but his face settled as he did into the seat, turning to a grin that showed his white teeth. I sat opposite, taking the bag off of my shoulders.

“Oh so it does make a noise then.” The sarcasm of his voice licked the words he spoke.

That was the prompt. I reached into the bag, pulling out the awaiting notepad and pen, his face downturned slightly at the sight of them.

 **It’s not easy.** I wrote the words before flashing them at Jean, whose eyebrows crashed in a questioning wave.

“Who said talking was easy?”

**Everyone who doesn’t have a problem talking.**

“You don’t have to write everything down though. I don’t mind if you want to talk.” Those words confused me slightly, and I took a second to consider the options. Normally this was the best way, and conversation went better when I didn’t try. But Jean was encouraging me to use my voice.

 **It’s easier and less frustrating for you.**   _And for me._

When Jean replied, I couldn’t help but stop. “Like I give a shit,” he said as a small grin gripped his lips again, “I’d rather have a conversation than read what you have to say.” My breath had hitched. He wanted me to talk. Jean wanted to listen to me, not just read. That shocked me, the unusual trip this conversation was heading down both frightened me and appeared incredibly exciting.

“A-ar-rr-re y-you s-ss…ssu-ure?” Those words took so long, and in the time I spent trying to spit them out, Jean did nothing but smile at the sound, as though he was pleased that I had tried, despite the obvious failing of my voice.

“Definitely. I don’t want you to act like it’s a problem; it’s not, really.”  At those words, he smiled reassuringly just as a woman turned up to ask for drink orders; Jean had a beer and I eventually asked for a diet coke, aware that alcohol just made the stutter worse. Jean continued, “if I had to do this job with a stutter, I don’t think I could do have a good as job as you do.”

“I-ii-it’s-ss n-nn-nnot eas-ss… easy, s-ssom-t-timmm-mm-m…mm-mes it t-ta-ak-e-s a wh-hhiii-le.” _Is this as infuriating for him as it is for me?_

The extended sentence would irritate most people to the point of interruption, but Jean didn’t say a word or make a face. He just looked intently at me and waited for me to finish without any hint of anything other than interest. “Yeah and people look at you like they should talk for you. I get that.” Those words made his face drop, and I briefly caught a dark flash that made his pupils shrink and the sharp jaw tense. There was something he was remembering, it was written on his canvas face.

“D-did y-yy-yyo-oou h-hav-vvve a st-ut-uu-utter?”

“I used to have Tourette syndrome. I’d swear and have really violent ticks.” That was surprising. He was well spoken and I had only heard him swear a couple of times.

“Yo-oo-ou st-t-t… st-t… st-t-till haa-ave it?” I asked.

“No. I had an accident a few years back and it just stopped. It was lucky I suppose. I couldn’t get into college or get a job ‘cause it was distracting and offensive and most places were worried I’d end up causing a problem for someone.” At that moment the drinks arrived and the lady waited while we said our orders, both pizza, mine with peppers and mushrooms and Jeans a Vesuvius. His voice had been so quiet, I remember, like he was talking to himself. But as the lady left, he was back in full swing, smiling neatly. “Shall we talk about something else? I get the feeling that you’ve had enough of talking about it, especially at work.”

He was right. I couldn’t help but nod at the thought of having a decent conversation, even if I wasn’t sure I knew how to start one, “s-sssure” I said, and smiled at Jean, and we talked of things that had nothing to do with the sound of my voice.

**

The whole night after that was surprisingly easy.

I talked about when I previously worked at a relatively small newspaper firm as head editor in another city and Jean listened, not caring that I took almost twenty minutes to tell him only a quick story and even laughing at some of the funnier bits as though their timing had been perfect, pretending that it hadn’t taken me almost thirty seconds to spit out the word ‘just’. Of course I avoided the reasons why I had left the small-town newspaper, not quite wanting to scare away a guy I was seriously starting to consider more than a friendly acquaintance.

Jean talked about the one eyed pug he owned, valiantly rescued from a drunken mess of a neighbour, and presenting me with digital pictures of a black, wrinkled splodge with a lolling tongue. I talked about the ancient, smelly cat that was stuck on with me when my mother passed away three years ago and simply refused to die no matter how many times the blessed thing fell ill or had been hit by cars as it blindly walked the streets. Its nine lives had expired a very long time ago. He told me about his sister who was studying medicine at the same university he studied English Literature at and how she called him every few days just to prove that she had gone to more parties than he had once boasted he’d been to, still half drunk and normally with a random guy she met and of course he told me of how much he appreciated that, seething with sarcasm.

As the pizza showed up at our table, the conversation had moved onto the article he had written that day. “Wwwhe-ee-ere di-di…did y-you get the i-ide-eea f-fffrom-mm for thh-the arr-rrticle?” I pondered with broken words.

“We ran a story a few weeks back that I worked on about the lady who claimed to have been sold fingers by the guy who worked in that shop. Someone tipped us off that the police were making a raid on the same shop today so I went to check it out with Eren. But not much happened, so I did some research somewhere else,” he dug his cutlery into the pizza to carve out a small square but didn’t put a single piece in his mouth until he finished talking- ever the gentleman.

“S-ss-so whh-hhe-eere d-di-did yo-ou get the inf-form-mm-mm-mation fr-rom?”

Jean swallowed before talking, Adams Apple bobbing in his throat, “I looked around town and found this priestess who knew something about the place, told me about someone she treated who died because of what the guy had given her.”

“Th-he one wi-ith depr-rr-rr….depr-rr-r…” this word was hard. Jean didn’t seem to mind, instead he looked to his pizza, cutting a slice and taking a bite “deprr-ression?” for some reason, him not looking had made it that bit easier. Maybe it was because his golden eyes weren’t waiting for me to finish talking. No, as a matter of fact talking had been getting progressively easier. I still couldn’t pull off a sentence but it was slowly becoming less painfully annoying.

“Yeah that lady. But most of the time she was talking about angels and stuff like that.”

“Angels?” The word was clear, for which I was grateful. I smiled at my own great effort.

“Yeah. She was saying that I had an angel who just spent the whole time grinning like a nutter.”

I was smiling at the thought of it; a ghostly blonde woman hovering around behind Jean, saffron hair floating in a spread fan and her soft sheen dress almost shining white as she peered down, pleasant smile cast over her pale skin. “I th-thhhi-ink thhhat’s nice.”

He swallowed loudly, concern furrowing his thin eyebrows together and not looking at me as he spoke. “Yeah it was okay until she went ‘ _he’s_ smiling behind you’. Now I just feel like I’ve got Freddie Kruger staring down at me twenty-four seven.” The beautiful blonde lady shifted, and I now imagined the gaping, sinew latex face and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of him hanging around behind Jean all the time like a shinigami, and Jean smiled too, eyes bright at the sound of my laughter.

“N-no th-that’s amazing. I won-nder if ev-veryo-one h-hh-has one.” I said through giggles, my words just as broken as normal but for different reasons this time. My shortened breath ruined my slight progression.

“I guess so. She made it sound like everyone did.” I took another bite of pizza and Jean sipped on his third beer in the mutual silence before he spoke again. “What would you want yours to look like, if you could choose?”

Some images popped into my head, and I smiled at the thought. “Ch-huck N-nn-norris.” Jean laughed, the bright sound rattling its way around the room, disturbing the few other patrons who stared grumpily. He had a great laugh; incredibly happy and boisterous. It was infectious. I couldn’t help but chuckle with him. I didn’t care for their dirty looks that were thrown our way; I was having a good time and I hoped Jean was too.

“I’ve just got an image of Chuck Norris dressed in a white sheet with a gun in both hands and a cowboy hat on and I can’t get it out of my head.” he rubbed his face with one hand, “no, that’s too scary,” Jean gawffed at the stupid image he had given himself and now me, eyes closed tight as his chest rocked with deep breaths. It was the first time I properly looked at anything other than his amber eyes without feeling as though I was ogling him; Jean’s strange hair, ashen blonde at the top where it was long and almost curling and bronzed brown around the bottom where it was buzz-cut short, pale skin stretched around a strong jawline and cheekbones, and a pointed nose that was both thin but strangely proud, yet not strong. For the more-times-than-I-care-to-admit’th time, I inwardly admitted how hot he was, and both cursed him for his wonderful face, and felt grateful that I could admire it.

“Www-wha-aa-t w-would y-youu-rs l-oo-ok l-like?” I asked, still laughing slightly. He opened his eyes at the question and they burnt topaz in the restaurant-fake-candlelight.

“Einstein,” he confirmed, at which I snorted loudly before letting out the rising pressure in my chest, “hey, Einstein is a cool dude,” he retorted, “ I mean, if you’re going to have the brawny one, I’m kind of stuck with the brains.”

“Einst-stein!” the word fell dumbly out of my mouth, cut apart with laughter.

Jean just tried to contain his laughter and for the first time he blushed slightly. “Shut up. It’s a good choice…”

**

That was how the evening panned out.

The more we got talking, the less conscious I got of my speaking habits. I still struggled; there were times when I had to stop, take a sip of my drink and breathe before starting again. But Jean never said a word. He didn’t ask me to pull out my notepad and write it down, make it easier for me, but he never forced me to speak either. I spoke because I felt comfortable with saying the words, and he made me feel good knowing that he wanted me to talk. He didn’t seem to find it uneasy as so many did. Inwardly, I wondered if it was due to the Tourette Syndrome he had so briefly mentioned. We hadn’t discussed it further, but I still wanted to know.

We didn’t leave the restaurant until eleven thirty when the waitress came around looking tired and dishevelled and said that they would be closing in a few minutes. Jean paid the bill without any hesitation and I thanked him for it, and the great evening, and I promised that next time I’d be the one to pay.

Jean and I decided to walk back to Recon where he had parked his car and I walked home from. The whole way back we chatted casually, and every time I looked at him I couldn’t help but smile. He was a really great person. He was funny and interesting and knew exactly what to say at the right moment. Of course, he had drunk a few beers in the course of the time we spent together so he wasn’t exactly one hundred percent sober either.

“Uh Jean?”

“What is it?”

“Y-you ha-aave to d-drri-ive ba-aa-ack, right?”

“Yeah so? I’ll be okay.” The following hiccup suggested otherwise.

I watched him stumble around on the pavement a bit as one hand gripped the back of my shirt to keep himself completely upright. The thought of him crashing into a lamppost or getting caught by a diligent officer was playing on the edges of my consciousness and I wasn't enjoying the tinge of guilt that was welling up in my stomach. “You’re n-not. Let mme d-dri-ive yo-oou back.” He didn’t say a word, half realising that he wasn’t exactly steady. Jean nodded before reaching into his pocket to grab a loop of keys. I pressed the button and the orange lights of an old Beetle flashed in the dark of the car park.

We walked together towards the car, Jean settling into the passenger seat, head lulling onto the head rest and groaned at the late hour as I plugged the keys into the car, the whole thing rattling to life as I put my seatbelt on. Jean didn’t do the same, so I decided to take it steady.

“My house isn’t far from here,” his words were slightly slurred, his eyes drooping.

“Yo-oo-ou’ll need t-t-t-to g-iii-ve m-me direct-tions,” I stuttered. Jean guided me with his instructions, and I soon realised that he wasn’t as far away as I thought. To be honest, the car wasn’t necessary; it was only a twenty minute walk away. In this city nothing was too far away, and if it was then the bus service was really rather decent. The Punto I had once owned was immediately sold once I moved here only a month ago; I never missed it apart from when it came to grocery shopping.

Eventually we reached a quieter street, aged red brick flats four stories high, steps out the front leading onto a one way street with cars on either side. “It’s this one here,” Jean pointed to the left hand side of the road, a noticeable gap in the pavement-rested cars.

 This would take some work. I hadn’t driven in quite a while since a car wasn’t necessary for me, and reversing had never been my strong suit anyway. It took me way too long to fit into the gap that was definitely big enough for the car, as Jean so graciously (and sarcastically) pointed out, amused by my concentration. But in the end I made it, wheels on the curb and engine turned off.

We sat in silence, surrounded by the quiet of that car. That was the first time, and the only time, I ever felt awkward with Jean. Our breathing was surprisingly loud, in sync as though we ran a lazy marathon together, and our eyes met in the city light darkness. I could feel my breath hitching, the sharp intakes catching fire and burning the back of my throat with the dry air.

 _This guy is fucking gorgeous._ I couldn’t help but admit it to myself. It was those eyes; I’d never seen anything like them, gem or flesh alike. The amber encased the dark secret of the iris, trapped flecks forever immortalised in the sea of honey, trapped like flies in his sweetness. There was no way I could silence the trance, get it to stop and pull away, blink and pull myself back.

I actually did have to pull myself back.

We’d slowly encroached, both unblinking until Jean broke it with croaking words. “Uh, how are you getting back home?”

That was a good question. “W-w-ww-walk.”

Another silence and the rich oak drawing me in again, small smirk on his lips and touching the corners of his eyes, “you could just, y’know, stay here tonight.” The low tone of his voice was all too inviting, subconsciously insinuating something. Plus, the thought of not having a late night walk back to my empty flat was rather tempting.

However, I am too much of a workaholic to ever miss a day.

“W-we ha-have w-w-www… w-work tomm-mm-mmorrow.” Saturday; the busiest day of the week, the pinnacle news for the nation in one newspaper and two magazines filled with nonsense and news alike, ready for Sunday morning, breakfast reading with bacon and orange juice. It was the busiest day, the longest day. And Jean was slightly drunk and inviting me to his house. Whatever way this seemed to him, it wasn’t a good one if I fancied sticking to my career. I wanted to keep my job, and I was pretty sure he did too.

“I forgot about Saturday.” Jean’s eyes had dropped, arm grabbing the keys from the ignition before clambering out. The sharp night air cut into the car, waking me from my sitting position and I moved, getting out the car and trying not to slam the car door so hard that it woke the neighbours up. I stood awkwardly on the pavement and watched Jean clamber next to me, slightly too close to me, his blurred standards quickly dropping. “Are you sure you have to go?” He was so God damn close, barely inches from my face, eyes flicking to look at mine before dropping again.

“Pr-pr-rre-“

I was interrupted, a warm set of lips on my cheek and I breathed in hard to a strong smell of beer and… lemon dishwasher tablets? It wasn’t unpleasant, far from it in fact; it was clean and sweet and wonderfully refreshing. It was quirky, and reminded me of him. The lips didn't linger long on my cheek, Jean’s soft hair brushed lightly against my violently blooming face as he pulled away, small smile on his lips, now tainted with the touch of my unworthy skin as he whispered “thank you for the lovely evening” and walked up the leaf-littered stairs as the car flashed orange, locking the world out. The door opened and he stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him.

Was it just me, or did I see him lick his lips as he shut the door?

**

The half an hour journey back was spent not thinking, breath ragged as I felt the burning touch of the kiss on my cheek. It was a dramatic overreaction. The unexpected closeness of those last few moments were strange. Why had he done what he did? Th ideas were running wild, but I thought rationally, suggesting that  _hey, Jean's name is French and they're more liberal on that type of thing there. It's nothing Marco, you're over-thinking it all..._

Even as I got home, the new day just beginning, his hot touch still wormed its way into my skin and I couldn’t get it out. My mind didn’t want it to leave.

It panicked me.

The Saturday I wanted was far away, and the sleepless night I gained was due to the constantly strained rise and fall of my chest, my head whirring at the memory of his touch-

A touch I didn’t deserve, but now so desperately wanted again.

As I lay in my bed, all clothes bar my boxers thrown across my desk chair, I threw in my ear buds and flicked the permanently plugged in iPod to shuffle in a last ditch attempt to shut up the thoughts in my head. It was starting to work, but immediately halted as a cheery pop beat sung out:

_[Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gM7Hlg75Mlo) we go again,_

_I kinda wanna be more than friends._

_So take it easy on me_

_I’m afraid you’re never satisfied…._

I groaned and randomly switched song to The Script as I flipped over to lie on my stomach, hugging the pillow to my face as I lazily arched my back into the air, forgetting for once that I had a problem saying words when the music wasn't playing in my ear. “God damn Marco, you old sap,” I muttered into the fabric and hid under the blanket of soft singing before drifting into a pleasant sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: The dishwasher tablet thing is totally taken from me. I couldn't think of a sexy smell, so i was just like "what smell do I find really hot... I'll use that."
> 
> AND I THOUGHT OF LEMON DISHWASHER TABLETS. 
> 
> I do have a small obsession with them, I even keep a box in my room and sniff them if i get stressed. I also tried to eat one when I was little and let me tell you they don't taste as good as they smell. It still beats wasabi though. (Honestly they don't taste as bad as you'd think; just like chemical, soapy, lemoneyness. Dishwasher tablets, however, do not constitute to a healthy balanced diet, but if you are so inclined I suggest you regulate the amount of dishwasher tablets you eat to one a week. How did i end up talking about this?)
> 
> It's things like this that make people think I'm a complete basket case. Not that I'm not. My whole life revolves around making sure my parents don't realise how mental I am. There are too many stories...
> 
> Sleep tight errybody :3
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	4. Jean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to put this out early because it's hella distracting, and I keep wanting to edit it rather than over-analyse the links between Larkin and Abse poetry before writing a pretentious practice essay.
> 
> Also, thank you majorly for the kudos'. ~~The nerd in me immediately worked out the kudos to view ratio; 1:10, which is pretty fucking fantastic, so thank you all!! :3~~ (I'm a conceited asshole in all of my past lives, and this one too. Ignore my ignorant bullpiss. I am deeply ashamed.-- future me.)

In all honesty I _was_ aiming for his lips. I’m not going to lie about it because FUCK, yeah, you might as well have stuck an Elton John song on and gotten me to dress up as one of the Village People because I thought he was god damn cute. You couldn’t deny it really; the chocolate eyes rimmed with green with lashes that fluttered thickly to shield his view when he messed up his words, voice still deep and smooth through the stops and starts that frustrated Marco so badly... I got that, and he seemed to appreciate that I understood and didn’t react.

When I fell asleep on my messy pile of a bed, half grateful that Marco hadn’t come in and seen how much of a slob I really was, all I could see was his face in the car; the open curve of his pink lips that slowly shut as he stared, eyes half-closed and the gap between us slowly becoming smaller. I thought we were going to… And yet Marco just snapped out of it as soon as I spoke, looking shocked and almost dazed before we got out of the car.

But he did smell freaking awesome, although it was a smell I could barely trace. Sure, the hint of dried orange was prominent in the thin strands of dark hair near his face, yet there was something else entirely I couldn’t put my finger on. It was just pure warmth; the smell of heat on skin when the sun gets a chance to say 'hello', the scent of summer countryside when you drive along tiny, winding lanes through the patchwork fields of golden canola and verdant seed hay. Marco’s freckles must have been tiny, dark pheromone pouches because he smelt way too good. Even in sleep, I traced the paths in the fields that he must have taken to smell like that.

 I stupidly imagined him living in a tiny cottage surrounded by a swaying mass of fools-gold that curved in the wind and made his dark hair, dark eyes and dark freckles stand out and greying everything else in comparison to the black abyss of his irises as he walked through the endless valleys, eventually reaching the red memory of last night, faint music pulsing in unpleasant and wrongly placed beats… similar to the ringtone on my phone.

“Crap!” Yep, my phone was blaring a Pendulum track loudly and in both a horrifying state of head pounding, alcohol induced sleep and an even worse moment of realisation, I leaned over to the bedside table and picked up the cracked screened phone. “Hello?”

“Oh my god Jean get you horsey-ass rump down here right now.” The manic voice of Eren shot down the phone. I internally sighed before mustering my grumpy reply, mashing my fingers into my temples.

“What is it Jaeger?”

“Erwin’s looking you jackass. That, and you’re late as well so-“

“I’m not late,” I retorted as I shut my eyes against the bright sunlight, “my shift starts as eleven today.”

“Yeah well it’s almost two now. You’re late.” I barely heard Eren’s last words as I tore around the room like a tornado (sorry for the overused lexis Levi, but it’s an accurate description), searching for something decent to wear and hurriedly choking down a paracetamol around brushing my teeth as the voice still blared down the phone. “Erwin looks real shifty today horse face. You’d better watch it. He looks like he’s ready to fire someone,” the voice said, sardonic hint on the unseen lips.

“FUCK YOU,” I screamed loudly from inside the bathroom, hoping Eren had heard me. The toothbrush was still in my mouth when I ran back into the bedroom to shove a pair of the douche-iest pair of shoes I could find on my feet, which happened to be a pair of caramel desert boots that didn’t match my jeans but hey, they were comfortable so I wasn’t one to complain. “I’ll be fifteen minutes. Don’t piss him off in that time or I swear to God-“

“Just get yourself down here, Racing Stripes. Ar is talking to him now.” I ignored the annoying pony reference and stopped the call, rushing to the car and hoping that the traffic would be good.

Despite the fact that Erwin’s practically the owner of the entire company, and sometimes liked to annoyingly hang around and ask questions as though it really mattered, he was rather distant from most of his employees. Other than to talk to the head editors, or when he came to check up on people randomly when the need arose, the only times he came down was to complain about something. So for him to specifically ask for me was definitely not a good sign. I highly doubted that he was going to say “congratulations Jean, I’ve decided to give you the entirety of this business because of your wonderful work,” as though he’s fucking Willy Wonka or something.  

If he was wandering around the office, something was up. Random boss visits are a bad sign for journalists so I got an extraordinary case of the butterflies once I turned up at the office thirteen minutes later. I ran inside, barely taking note of the pelting rain, gaining a knowing but sympathetic from Krista as I made my way to the elevator, practically shaking with nervous anticipation and the cool rain that had soaked through my shirt.

But once I burst out of the elevator, the situation I was expected was thrown out the window like confetti. Erwin was standing next to the water cooler with Armin and Eren, who had his arm around the blond’s waist. Next to them was Reiner, Bertholdt from accounting, Connie and an incredibly wet Sasha, who was chomping down on a chunk of bacon which may or may not have some bread wedged in the pile of streaky goodness. “There’s the man I wanted to see.” Of course it was Erwin, who was edging closer with outstretched arms, pulling my into a bear hug I wasn’t prepared for.

“Hey look guys, Red Rum’s turned up.”

I could barely breathe around the massive chunk of a man, but I tried to express my dissatisfaction nonetheless. “I really don’t like you Eren,” I panted around the bulky arms which eventually released me.

“Well, thank goodness you turned up, because I have some very exciting news for you Jean.” Erwin smiled widely despite my concerned glance, “The article you wrote for today’s paper picked up so much interest that Good Morning TV wanted you to appear on their Monday show as a guest for the discussion on that case.”

“Are you pulling my fucking leg?!” That may have been over the top but HOLY CRAP, they wanted me to talk about my article. I’m pretty sure my jaw decided to go for a walk at that point, as did Eren’s whose eyes had somehow managed to get even wider and tinted with jealously.

“Nope, I’m not kidding. They want you in Stohess tomorrow night. You’re on a panel discussing the Black’s case.”

“Oh my god Jeanny, you’re gonna be a big TV star!” Sasha was bouncing around, Connie fruitlessly attempting to hold the po-go-stick-with-flesh down.

“But what the hell do I talk about?”

“They’ll tell you tomorrow evening, but I guess just about possible options on what’s going on. Hopefully there will be some development on the case between now and then, though,” Erwin said.

At that point, the group of gossipy bitches surrounding me got quite excited, random hugs and squeals as I got squished into a group hug, including Erwin who was getting in on the action and acting like the ‘cool boss’ he thought he was. I wasn’t particularly enjoying the attention, and when Eren leaned over to Armin to give him a peck on the cheek in the midst of excitement, I allowed my arms to explode outwards to dismiss the group. “Enough with the sappy shit, I need to get back to-“

“Heey, Marco.” Connie waved his arm, as I plunged my face into my hand, shaking it hopelessly. There was no way that the rest of my day would go smoothly after this; I’d likely be dragged out by someone for congratulatory drinks tonight, and with Marco here, I couldn’t help but stare through the protective shield of my fingers.

He looked so good, dark blue skinny jeans with a white shirt under a grey v-neck jumper with dark blue cuffs and neck line. With that he wore white Converse with blue soles and tip, the black bag slung across his chest. It was kinda preppy and totally adorable, but in a way that just accentuated his broad shoulders and nipped in waist even more. I envied the man for his figure.“What’cha doing down here then?” Connie asked.

“R-Reiner.” Marco’s face was bright red behind the freckles yet his mouth hung in a hard line, avoiding everyone’s faces as he walked towards the man he’d addressed. In his hand that was outstretched in front of him was the infamous notepad which read:

**Can you please make sure that you actually write your article rather than email me notes? I’m not your co-writer, I’m your editor. If you hand me your article in bullet points again I won’t sent it on.**

It was happening again. Reiner half expected the editors to write his work out for him, and every time the editor would come down to complain, not getting anywhere with the hulk of muscle. He'd just act as though it was their job, and editor after editor would refuse his articles. “Aw come on Marky, I don’t have time to write it out properly,” Reiner spoke to the paper, avoiding Marco’s eyes.

At the nickname, there was a sudden change in Marco’s face. The awkward blush immediately dropped, eyes screaming ‘fuck no, you did not just say that’, pursed lips chewing against one another and he immediately started to write, pen flying furiously across the paper.

**My name is Marco, and by the way you WOULD have time to write your article out properly if you stopped going to the copy room to make out with tall, dark and sweaty.**

Once everyone finished reading Marco’s scribed quip, all eyes settled on Bertholdt and Reiner, both of them choking on whatever words were trying to say, furiously gagging on their excuses. Only the sound of pen to paper was audible.

**Next time you decide to strip against the copy machine, lock the door or put a tie on the handle or something.**

“That was you?” The squeaking question that came from Reiner’s mouth was both amusing and absolutely revealing, and the look on Erwin’s face was priceless; incredibly shocked and repulsed at the newly out-the-closet couple, and amused by Marco who was once again blushing madly. Bertholdt was slowly slipping away, dragging Reiner by the arm as he muttered a response, “uh, er yeah I mean I’ll… I’ll retype the… the article thing so uh…” and the pair was gone, walking quickly across the office as though they could escape our stunned glares.

“I fucking knew it!” Connie shouted as Sasha finished shoving the last of her bread with massacred pig in her mouth and nodded. Armin looked in shock, and Eren had once again gripped his waist, earning him a sharp glance before I returned to look at a gently smiling Marco.

“This is why I hired you. You’re a real character, Bodt,” Erwin’s words broke through the shock I was in. When had Marco been so chill, and when did he realise how to disconcert Reiner?!

“You completely scared the shit out of that guy,” I laughed.

“Do-don’t men-nn-tion it aga…again.” A flush bloomed his way onto Marco’s face as he looked at me to talk, his dark eyes settling on mine, and I was unsure if he was blushing at me or the following memory, “I s-ssaw wway t-t-too m-mm-mu-uuch.”

“Hey Shadowfax, stop grinning like a dork at Marco.” _Aw fuck you Eren_. I turned to look the little shit directly in the eye, wiping my dorky grin from my ‘horse face’.

“Where the fuck do you get all these horse names from you ass?”

“Nah Jean, you’re the ass.”  The smirk on Eren’s lips was just annoying enough to get me a bit pissed off, taking a step towards the cocky little man, and Armin pulled away to stand next to Connie who was quite happy to egg Eren on, shouting “fight, fight, fight” like we were all in the playground, not standing next to the boss at the office of a countrywide newspaper.

“Jean, d-don’t-“

“Marco’s right. No arguing in the office.” Erwin stuck his body in between me and Eren, facing me and staring as he spoke, “I can’t have you looking like you get into fights at bars. Haven’t any of you got work to do before you start to beat each other up?”

“…Got l..l-lunch.” Marco said, Connie and Sasha nodding at the word.

“You wanna head out with us Marco?” Armin added, and the ebony bob of hair bounced.

“What about you Merrylegs? Haven’t you got lunch now?”

Erwin answered for me, thankfully still standing so that Eren was just out of my reach. “He’s got today free now. Petra took your article today since you weren’t here.”

“So you’ll eat with us?” Sasha was grinning and slowly edging towards me, trying to perceive if she would be able to hug me. I just sighed loudly which she took as her cue and she squeezed my waist.

“Fine. As long you don’t steal my food.” The words were both joking and serious. I looked down at Sasha who was buried into my t-shirt, eyes glaring up at me and contemplating her next plan of action.

“No deal sunshine. But as a favour I’ll only steal the salad-y part.”

“Fine by me.”  

So the group headed out, leaving Erwin to search for the soon-to-be reprimanded star crossed lovers. Eren and Armin lead in front, and Connie somehow managed to pry Sasha away from my waist so that they could gossip.

I was at the back, walking alongside Marco and trying my hardest not to stare. He was still blushing, nervously flicking the corners of the notepad with his thumb and purposefully avoiding my eyes. In that moment, I wondered if I had accidentally made it awkward last night with my attempted but thankfully well averted kiss. It must have been shocking for him. So I slowly started to drop back as we walked from the building and Marco matched pace, too far away from the others to try and catch up with them without being rude.

“Hey Marco, that kiss thing… don’t worry about it. It’s a family thing ‘cause y’know, being French and all. I don’t want to make you feel embarrassed or anything.” _Smooth, Jean. Real fucking smooth._

Marco didn’t seem to notice the internal self-hatred I had just created by speaking those words and instead smiled brightly for the first time since last night. I could get used to that smile; it had a good feeling and never felt forced. When Marco smiled it also felt like he lit up inside and making him happy made that light shine from within.  

He opened the notepad but instead of writing, he flicked through the pages of words until he reached the ones he was looking for.

**It’s okay. I understand.**

As he slipped the notepad into his bag, I noticed that the smile was still there, but not as bright. His eyes were sympathetic almost, and God damn it he was hot.

**

As we walked into The Three Walls pub, I saw Mikasa sitting on a far table, twiddling her thumbs as she waited for us. As always she was stunning, cat-like eyes lined with charcoal black that flawed out in an elegant sweep that cut against her palomino skin. It still amazed me that this beauty went out with Eren, and even allowed the open relationship with Armin that she didn't really want.

Eren disgusted me in so many ways. When he first started to go out with the gorgeous Asian, he'd been so nice to her. But when Armin turned up it changed; he stopped taking her places, and he would spend evenings with him rather than spending time with her. Some nights I'd get a call from Mikasa who would be in tears about how she'd planned to go out with her boyfriend for the evening, and then get a call from Eren had dropped her for Armin. Soon after that, Eren outed it and said that he was seeing Armin too. You could tell that the sweet kid was in love with the douche-bag, which made it even worse to think that this guy was going to ruin him one day. Now the dick had Mikasa and Armin hanging from one arm each. They both wanted to be with Eren, and Eren wanted them both. Neither of them wanted the open relationship he'd created, but neither wanted to leave, or liked each other in any way more than friendship, so committing to a three-way relationship was out of the question. I felt desperately sorry for the pair. Eren was messing with them both; he was playing off of their love to get what he wanted, using them both in a way that turned my stomach. You don't mess around with affairs of the heart, no matter how cheesy that may sound.

Eren still had his hand around Armin’s waist as we walked in, but as soon as he caught sight of the model worthy woman, he abandoned the sweet blond. “Hey babe,” he said before placing a kiss on her cheek, and the ever-present happy shine of Armin's eyes faded just a little.

She just flashed a smile before greeting the others, and Armin who sat beside her and Eren opposite. “Who’s this then?” she asked, looking to Marco for an answer.

“He’s Marco. But he doesn’t talk much ‘cause he stutters.” Connie spat it out, even though Marco looked ready to answer himself. Instead he let out a small choke and leant over the table to shake Mikasa’s hand as she told him her name. He looked a bit put off at how Connie had answered for him, so I shot him a sympathetic (hopefully) look and he smiled back. I’m pretty sure the others noted our silent exchange with raised eyebrows.

“Do you guys want drinks?” I asked, and everyone placed orders. It was mostly rum and cokes, with a couple of beers and a diet coke for Marco. The others had settled into chairs gossiping to each other about Bertholdt and Reiner, and what had happened in the office, ignoring my desperate pleas for help. “Uh, I don’t think I can carry seven drinks at once, anyone willing to lend a hand?”

And thank the Lord above and every other deity I can think of, for they sent me freckled Jesus. The only person who actually answered my prayers was him. He stood up, following me to the bar and leaving the others behind.

I had just finished placing the order when he tapped my shoulder, and I turned. Our faces were rather close but Marco didn’t seem to notice. “W-wha-aa-aat’s w-w… Errren and Mik-k-kaasa and Ar-aarm-mmin?”

“Oh,” I sighed, “complicated. Eren likes them both and goes out with both of them. But Armin and Mikasa don’t like each other like that, I don't think. but they both really like him. It’s pathetic on his part and he’s making them both pretty unhappy.” The drinks had materialised on the counter while I was talking so I picked up what I could and Marco took the rest. He seemed quieter after I told him, contemplating the relationship. As we rounded the corner to the bar, I could almost see him scrutinizing the trio.

“And then they ran off. I think Erwin was gonna go chase after them.”

“Are you serious? Oh my God Marco, what the hell did you see?!” Mikasa was laughing as Marco placed her drink in front of her.

“Dis….not nn-nnice thinngs,” he cut himself off before carefully retrying the answer.

“That’s not good enough. We want blackmail material.” Sasha’s eyes shined as she spoke those words, tucking into the drink.

“Yeah, write it down. I wanna know.” Marco sat down next to Connie and opposite me, looking across the group with a bleak expression. I had a few ideas of what may have been seen in that room, and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.

Marco reached into his bag, pulling out the notepad and pen before writing.

**Are you guys sure that you want to know?**

“Positive. I wanna tease the shit out of them later.” Eren was practically rubbing his filthy hands together at the thought and Marco just nodded his reply, taking the time to write as the group sat in silence, waiting for him.

In the quiet I noticed so much; how Eren had one hand on each of his partners arms, how Connie and Sasha sat ridiculously close together, hands on their own thighs that touched together gently. Marco, how his expression changed as he wrote. The scrunched brow got steadily worse and some freckles became enveloped in the wrinkles that frowning created. We were all waiting for him to talk, and he wasn’t saying a word.

**I was heading to the copy room when I noticed noises coming from the room, so I opened the door slightly to see who was in there. The Reiner had his trousers off and was sitting on the copy machine and the tall guy was hanging around his general nether region... and some very uncouth comments were made about what was happening. Let’s just say that they were very into it.**

**At that point I screamed and shut the door.**  

“Oh fucking shit Marco your eyes.” Sasha was laughing, reaching over Connie to give an awkward hug. “You can never repeat those words. Your innocence will be ruined…. RUINED I SAY!”

**I'm 28. I've seen worse.**

"Naw Sash, I want gory details... What were they saying?"

"Did you see anything gross like-"

"Shut up Connie. We're in public you can't talk about other people's junk-"

"Guys come on, give Marco a break. He had to witness Sweaty and Sweep getting it on and I don’t think that’s something you want to relive, ‘kay, so leave him alone.” A thankful look came from Marco and I smiled back. Suddenly the table was quiet again, only broken by an “ooh” from Sasha.

“What’s it to you Bree Hee Hinny Hoo Hah how Marco's feeling?”

“Is there some Jeanny flirting going on?”

“Shut the fuck up.” I moaned through the stupid questions, rubbing my eyes with one hand. Marco was blushing into the drink that was permanently stuck to his face.

“Yeah, you two seem real close for people who’ve just met. Eh, what’s happening with you guys?”

“We’ve met before actually. I took him out for food yesterday-“

“YOU’VE BEEN ON A DATE ALREADY?!” Sasha spat out her drink across the table.  The whole pub went silent.

“It wasn’t a date. I was apologising for making him almost miss his deadline.”

“Why don’t we ever go on dates?” Mikasa and Armin spoke at once, Eren gagging at the simultaneous questions.

“Was it a date Marco. Did he invite you back to his?”

“Y-yeah.”

“So it was a date.”

“When was the last time we went out, Eren?”

“Oh this is so cute I-“

“Hey Marco do you-“

“-can’t take us both out-“

“you kiss or someth-“

“don’t like her like tha-“

Everyone was talking at once. The entirety of the normal pub noises came from our table, whilst everyone else sat in silence and stared. Armin and Mikasa were grabbing ahold of Eren, who was desperately trying to calm them both down as Connie and Sasha gripped each other in excitement as they screamed stupid questions at Marco, who looked in a daze, mouth agape as he looked from me to the others.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor and we all turned. All eyes were on a silent Marco, the pinnacle of our interests as he stood tall and strong, yet with a bemused look and eyes caught in the glare of the babble of conversation. He didn’t say a word, just finished his drink and pushing a few coins onto the table as payment. The black bag he carried was sat on the table and he put the notepad in. We all just watched, my face turning red for the way all of us had behaved. This was my group of friends, and they had embarrassed Marco, and they'd embarrassed me. I thought Marco would be ashamed, that he would walk out on me and not another word would be said between us ever again.

“Y-you com-ming, Jean?”

I was shocked at the question, when my expectation had been for him to leave without saying a word. The others sat in silence as I got up too and almost thanked him for sticking by me. To stand up and leave with him was an answer enough for Marco and we walked out on the group together, leaving the group behind to contemplate their actions.

The expectation for conversation between us was practically non-existent in my mind as we walked in the weak rain back to the office. Hell, even I’d had enough of the sound of the English language in those few moments. But Marco turned to me as we walked. His eyes were still wide, innocent even, cheeks flushed behind angel kisses and I couldn’t help but study his face even as he quietly spoke. “W-wwas it a da-ate?”

I didn’t reply at once, think it through in my mind. I didn’t want to say either way. Of course I wanted it to be, but I was never sure of how Marco felt and I couldn't risk scaring him away. So I gave the safest answer in human history. “Only if you want it to be.”

That was the extent of our conversation as we walked. Internally, I decided to go home and sleep. There was nothing left for me to do at work and I had the strange feeling that the next few days would be pretty busy. I wouldn’t let the rushing in my ears from standing so close to Marco get in the way of my job. No matter how much I would have liked to stay and talk I didn't let myself get distracted. I couldn’t get the sunshine smell cloud my thoughts. Even if I wanted them to. My job was too important to me, my weirdly-close-and-flirty-friendship with Marco was too important to me; I wasn't ready to loose the guy. I’d barely known him and yet there was an understanding that I rarely got from anyone. I admired the shit out of him; his presence held a room, and he didn’t have to say a word. When he wrote, it became so important that people stopped and waited for him. Hell, it shook the strongest man I know, making him back away in shock and fright, denouncing the lazy throne that so many editors before Marco had knelt at. I wanted to know how he did it. Marco’s word was so important. I wanted to find out how his mind worked. Even if our relationship never progressed further than a friendship, I could deal with it. He was someone you wanted to keep around you for life.

We reached the formidable building together yet we didn’t separate at the door despite our different destinations. “I’m going home, since there’s nothing for me to do here,” I said, explaining myself for leaving him behind.

“Hey.” Marco placed one hand on my arm, warm and firm. My heart jolted at the touch, blood rushing as my heart jumped. “D-do you wan-n… next Saturd-d-daay… Go out a-again?”

 I didn’t reply. I just let my shocked expression fade and a grin take over as I lunged forward, opening Marco’s bag to find the notepad and pen within, a tiny squeal of surprise escaping his throat. I opened it up to a random page, scribbling down my phone number and shutting it closed before Marco saw which page I’d written it on. Then I gave it back, the dark eyes shocked at the sudden rush of movement. I just chuckled as he attempted to flick through and see what I had written.

“Wh-whh-wha-at d-d-d-did y-you d-do?”

He was blushing madly, and it was so sweet. The gentle curve of his lips parted against his white teeth and I couldn’t help but stare at the seeping spread of dark spots tickle the soft bow of the top lip.  I closed the space between us, just as I had done last night, allowing myself to look at him before asking “ _Puis-je vous embrasser avant de partir ?”_

Marco could barely answer before I kissed him lightly on the cheek, breathing in his scent and letting my lips feel his silken, petal skin. I could feel his deep breath blow hot on my cheek. It rattled as though he was shocked, yet he made no attempt to pull away even I probably lingered for a moment too long, not wanting to leave the sunshine and head into the grey autumn rain. I stopped myself, pulling away, looking into his eyes as our faces became close, Marco unblinking as he looked down at me.

Those eyes. Their almost ebony iris, so dark by the pupil as threads of green wove their way, starting to dip in and out weakly before almost taking over at the edges, the green enveloping the deep chestnut brown. Like his face, his eyes were freckled with specks of black that punctured the green and left them dispersed and broken. I let myself remember them, so wanting to run my thumb gently across the soft wings of eyelashes to make them flutter to shield his sight. I wanted to kiss him properly, take my hand and cup his jaw, stand on my toes so I could reach him and stare straight into those dark eyes for eons. I wanted his freckled nose to sit against mine so that we could breathe into each other as our lips collided. I wanted to say "yes" to his question for him... I wanted to go out with him, whether it meant something or not.

But I stayed away, not saying another word.

And then I walked off, leaving Marco standing in front of the building with the string of numbers buried in the book of his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I got around to introducing the Eren/Armin/Mikasa thing. It will be developed, I promise. 
> 
> Next chapter will be a Marco, and will probably be out next Sunday- I'm forcing myself to do work until then.
> 
> Goodnight everyone.
> 
> A big thank you to dark_cacahuete for helping me with the translations in this chapter. You are an absolute star!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	5. Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda disgusted at how much fluff this contains, and it's hurting my heart that I created it.
> 
> This is what happens when a friend asks for me to help her writing really disturbing hardcore Hannigram word porn. I start to become soft, and I'm getting the feeling that my emotions are now too drawn out for them to be rolled up like a pair of garters and shoved into the dark confines of my mind. So now you have sap.
> 
> (I also included my bad music taste for reasons.)
> 
> But hey, enjoy anyway.

I didn’t see Jean for the rest of the weekend and no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find what he had written in the bundle of notes. My Sunday was spent on the couch in my flat with a large cup of tea and my notepad, [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_Zk02FOvMU) playing unobtrusively in the background as I curled up and  flicked through the one sided conversations that were forever plastered in black words. The book was almost filled and I spent so long trying to see what he had written, wanting to know what he had put down that had made him so desperate to reach forward and take the wad of paper, that my legs went numb from sitting on them until the back of my neck was warm with the sunset light.

The sly grin that had teased me as he took my notepad kept repeating in my mind with every page I turned. His amber eyes that were so bright, staring into what I thought could be my very thoughts and soul as he wrote, and their mocking innocence as he handed it back were forever in my mind, revelling in his drawn out joke that had me scrambling for an answer. He wanted this. Jean wanted me to think of him. From the overly formal way he dressed, to his lithe movements and the words he said or chose not to say- it was all done to make a person think about the true meaning of his language.

Then there were the words; “pue je voeu ebraser au revoir?” he had asked, or I thought he asked. The only words I caught and recognised were the last two. Goodbye… Goodbye? “Something, something, something goodbye?” he had barely spoken, the words low and indelicate but meaningful and magical to hear. What was the rest? How could I ask Jean when I hadn’t seen him in the office all weekend and I had no way of contacting him?

I typed it into a translator, ending up with “I wish stinks ablaze goodbye?” The bad translation made me laugh. How could I know what he had said? Why didn’t he just say it in English? It was killing me, thinking about the words that were so beautifully fluid and soft, and floating out of his mouth like the soft breeze that carried the leaves it had stolen from the sleeping trees in the moments before he kissed my cheek for the second time. My words had never materialised. I had questions; _what does that mean? Why did you stick up for me? Was our meal a date? Do_ you _want it to be a date?_ They meant nothing if I had no way of expressing them. The questions got to me because I had no answers. The only refuge I had was trying to find what he had written. Normally, others were desperate for my written word. But now I was looking so hard for his, and I barely understood the reasons why I was trying. The questions kept up their relentless assault, and by the hour grew more numerous; I asked and another came, dragging me further into my path of deep thought and shutting the door as I went. Jean was leading me every blind step of the way; the one that started it all with a question and a touch, and the inevitable end to everything I was asking to learn about.

And the key he had given me was out of my reach.

**

Monday mornings are always difficult, especially when the morning start is so early. I had to be in by eight and by far it was my busiest working day, with seven articles to sort out starting from the first hour until I finished at an estimated time of five thirty.

So I was up too early, looking at myself in the mirror and attempting to pull the knots out of my greasy hair. It didn’t naturally part down the middle but stuck up in a disgusting mass that refused to be flattened unless it was styled. I showered, taking my time to get the lazy weekend feel out from under my skin that was starting to fade from the summer freckles, but the ancient ones that caused me many tears in my childhood still remained, the constellations mapping the memories I would rather forget. I didn’t want to remember. I wanted to move forward.

 _This is going to be a good week,_ I told myself. I was going to make it be a good week; force good will down this week’s throat until it was metaphorically compelled to spew it back out again. If I willed it to, it would happen.

I got out of the house by half seven, locking the peeling green-painted door of my apartment before heading down the stairs that smelt faintly of urine. It was only a temporary lease until I found somewhere better, but the hallway was most certainly the worst bit. The rent was decent and the actual rooms were rather pleasant. Yet it was too far out to stay there too long, and my weekly shopping trips were a rather laborious task when the nearest store was four blocks away.

So, with ears were filled with the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lK2kKg4ao2I) I had so carefully chosen to keep my mind distracted, I left the building. The bleak morning was filled with all kinds of people who bustled past in just as much as hurry as I was; mothers with their children in duckling lines, teenagers in gaggles and laughing loudly with cups of hot coffee and forbidden cigarettes, and so many grumpy people with crumpled suits and sagging eyes. The lyrics of my songs kept their limp faces in check, making the arctic breeze of late autumn seem poetic and more natural than it ever would in the city sounds, and the blaring cars couldn’t make me jump from my skin as their black bodies skirted too close to the pavements.

I waved a hello to Krista and the other woman at the desk, Ymir. I’d found out that they were dating last week after Connie caught them kissing when they thought the lobby was empty. (Perhaps some of his bad luck rubbed off on me in the time between then and seeing the eye burning incident.)

The office was almost completely quiet when I got there. It was rather pleasant as I made my way to my desk and dumped my bag on the table, music still playing in one of my ears and I faintly sang along with the tune, not bothering to say the words I would struggle with as I unpacked a couple of folders and filed them in the grey tower of metal in the corner of the tiny space.

“WOOOO, YEAH!” a sudden shout came from Mr Ackerman’s office that made me jump and spin around to follow the shriek. It definitely reminded me of Hanji, whose excited cries were sometimes heard throughout this floor when something good happened. Or not good… basically, if something to happened to Hanji, anything at all, their natural reaction was to scream. Unsure of whether I should get involved for fear of seeing something I’d rather not see, I stayed and turned on the computer just as the door slammed against the glass wall with a horrific bang. “Oi freckles, get yourself in Levi’s office now.” Of course it was Hanji, leaning against the doorframe and smiling widely as they beckoned me over with a long finger and a sadistic pair of flashing eyes.

“I-I-it’s o-ok-kay.” I said quietly, like it even mattered to them that I had an opinion. Hanji was pulling me by the arm with incredible strength towards the office within moments and I didn’t even protest.  I heard a few more excited shouts and raucous laughter coming from the office, and the sounds mixed with the gentle singing in my ear.

With a faint sense of shock I realised most of the office was crammed into that tiny room. I recognised some of the editors, Mr Ackerman sitting in his usual chair with a blank expression and arms folded defensively, Sasha and Connie who were huddling next to each other and laughing in their usual state of excitement, and I swear that I saw Reiner cautiously hiding in a crowd of unfamiliar faces in the far corner of the room. “Marco!” The shout came from Armin who was standing next to Eren, leaning against the desk and gaining a deathly glare from Mr Ackerman. “Jean’s on the morning news.”

“What?” I pulled the music from my ear, thinking that I’d misheard through the country-style guitar rift. “Jean’s on th-thh-“

“Yeah, he’s on in like two minutes. Stand next to me Marco.” Sasha waved me over and I obliged, letting her hand slip around my back to give me a squeeze through my jacket. I had guessed by now that she had a bit of a personal space invasion problem, but I wasn’t going to be the one that refused her cuddly personality. It was nice for someone to feel that comfortable around people and I wouldn't want to refuse a good hug.

I suddenly noticed a screen at the front of the room which played advertisements, guessing that it was switched to one of those morning news programmes that families played in the background as they did their morning routine before heading out to work and school, and housewives spent all day watching whilst they pottered around their homes, the times inbetween the show filled with advertisements for car insurance, PPI claims and toilet bleach. Of course no one was paying attention to the ad for kitchen roll and they were instead talking to each other quietly as the string of useless products flashed on screen.

Finally an annoying jingly theme song popped onto the screen and a few people “woop”‘ed excitedly including Sasha and Connie who were both too close for the noise to be funny, and my left ear burnt with what I swore must have been a slowly developing case of tinnitus.

Finally the image settled on a long, pastel shaded bench, a woman in a bright yellow shift dress and a balding man in a suit smiled brightly at the screen. “Welcome back,” the woman said, voice subdued and steady as a couple of people shouted, and a few others shushed at the excited squeals. “Now the recent story of Black’s, the small alternative medicinal store has come under heavy fire after a woman claimed to have been given human fingers to treat her terminal cancer.”

The man took over, looking from the lady to the camera lens as he spoke, voice with a subtle accent that muffled the words slightly. “That’s right Julie. Police later confirmed that the rumours were true, and on top of that, it was revealed this morning that the black substance they were found in contained several chemicals banned in this country.”

“With us today is Madame Rose of the Three Goddesses coven,” Julie spat out the words, the camera switched to a young lady with dark hair, elegantly twirled into a knot on her head, “whose church runs similar shops across the country and Jean Kirshtein-” and the camera flipped again to show Jean, grinning slightly and nodding his head in response to his name. The studio lights made him look fantastic, high cheekbones well defined, hair glossy and well styled. And his eyes were bright and wide, yet cool and calm and _incredibly hot…… (I was mentally screaming.)_ Jean looked so at home, almost cocky on screen, as though he was better than everyone else in that room and could wipe the floor with his superior intellect. But it worked. He looked so professional, and although I highly doubted that he would mess up, if he did then I didn’t think that anyone would notice or even care. The few women in Mr Ackerman's office were cooing over him, a few mentions on how good he looked as the majority of the room screamed.

I may or may not have inhaled incredibly deeply when I saw him, thankfully the sound quieter than the whoops of everyone in the room which cut out the last of what the lady known as Julie said about him, although a shot of the article I had edited the previous Friday flashed on screen, and Sasha tightened her animal grip on me at the image. The room took a while to quieten down, but I kept my eyes on the show, watching the two presenters ask questions to the young woman who was talking as the room quietened down.

“-understand that our church never asks for money for treatments of any kind. We thrive from public donations and readings that we give,” the religious lady said, her hands accentuating her words as they hovered over the table.

“So is the possibility that this store may have been one of your followers trying to make some money an option?” Julie asked and her eyes looked harshly at Madame Rose.

“We do not strive for money, but the protection of others. Besides, the description of the products given to the lady in question is nothing like any of the treatments given by me or my sisters.”

The man cut back in to the discussion. “But are you sure that-“

“What you have to understand is that the church of the three Goddesses is a non-profit charity. There would be no gain for anyone from their church to set up that shop,” A few shouts went around the room as Jean started to talk, almost rudely interrupting the man asking the question, his voice smooth and low and incredibly easy to listen to. “The sisters have an excellent reputation within Trost as a beacon of light for those who desperately need help. By using their name it means that those who are unsure of where to go to receive Madame Rose's help were more likely to turn up at Black’s instead. The Three Goddesses church would never risk their good name by setting up that business themselves.”

The camera panned out to show the two guests sitting side by side, Madame Rose with a grateful look as she smiled at Jean before talking. “The only money I make for myself is through customers who ask for me to get in contact with their angel, which is a separate venture. All other money goes to the church to help the public, and all treatments are free. That is a major difference between my shop and Black's.”

The camera switched back to the lady in yellow who was obviously keen to stop this line of conversation, both guests too appreciative of the Church that the news cast were trying to demonise. “Jean, your article suggested that the black substance which was found on both the fingers and in the store on the day it was raided, was most likely to be a mixture of substances which were hallucinogenic and carcinogenic. Why do you think that is?”

The camera flicked to Jean who sat and contemplated the question for a moment, brows lowering slightly at her words as though he thought the question was ridiculous. “I would have thought it would be obvious. People who go there are looking for escapism. If there is no way for a person to treat an illness, then what else can be done? By mixing the two you allow the customer to feel every little pain and they die from whatever poison has been included. The fact that the police have confirmed that it includes several banned drugs which are known to cause horrific and fatal side effects only backs up what I wrote, and helps to prove that there is something more than just a rogue member of a minority religion.”

 The woman talked again. “What would you say that this person is planning?”

“Either they’re trying to completely get rid of Madame Rose entirely by discrediting her, or that person is intent on making money and covering up how they got it.”

“Why would they want to get rid of-“

“Because potentially there is a lot of money when it comes to natural medicine. This person clearly doesn’t have a clue on what-“

I was focusing hard on the screen now as everyone was. Jean was doing spectacularly well, arguing incredibly fluently and shooting down anything said by the presenters. He was so professional and unruffled, and looked as though he’d been debating his entire life, the camera started to settle on him longer than any other person sitting on the table, obviously pleased at how photogenic he was. I was rather pleased too, as it meant I could look at him more without appearing as though I was staring. It was nice to see him again, even if he wasn’t there. In my head I couldn’t get over that this man had kissed me on the cheek, that he’d been flirting with me... that I knew him. The distance between us made those realisations all the more clear. The closer he was, the more my mind blurred and I couldn't concentrate.

When the conversation started to wind down and became more casual, the presenters started to ask questions to Madame Rose about the angels she kept mentioning, which happened incredibly frequently. The female presenter was getting in the full swing of asking questions, letting the man sit back and stare in condemnation and disbelief. “Before we go to break, I have to ask; does everyone have an angel?”

“Yes. And they’re constantly with us.” Madame Rose smiled at the presenter, both of whom were visibly calmer now that Jean’s intense arguing had stopped.

“So do they say things to you about the future and what’s going to happen?”

“Only sometimes. They can show images or say things that might help you in the future.”

“Is mine saying anything?” Julie asked with an amused chuckle.

“She’s just very happy to know that you’re okay.” There was a pause as she took her eyes away from Julie to stare at Jean, the two presenters looking as though they were just humouring their guest, patronising and slightly annoying. However Madame Rose kept talking at Jean, even if the preening presenters weren’t listening. “Yours is being very noisy, Jean. He keeps talking about something you wrote down, but the message is not for you.”

“What does is it saying?” The male presenter spoke up, leaning across the desk to look at Jean, who was starting to look embarrassed. The office laughed at the red blush starting to appear on the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, for the first time breaking the professional visage. The image Jean had made for himself was starting to break, and I could see the Jean I knew. I tried to capture my smile in my teeth when I realised how cute he was acting.

Madame Rose looks to the presenters, then Jean before settling her gaze on the camera. “He keeps going “It’s on the page where you wrote down the first words you wrote to Jean, underneath the ‘anywhere’.” And he also keeps apologising for Jean not answering your question the other day, and that the answer is yes, Saturday is good. He’s also telling me to tell _you_ ” at which point she looked straight at Jean, smile gone “to stop talking French to people when they don’t understand it, and it’s rude to ask questions someone doesn’t understand.”

“Are you seriously kidding me?” The presenters were laughing at Jean, who hid his head in his hand as he choked out the words of surprise.

“What was that about?” Eren asked, as everyone laughed at Jean’s growing embarrassment and the conversation on screen started to draw to a close.

And then I got it. “No w-way.” I tore myself from Sasha’s grip, leaving the room with a few distant shouts asking me where I was going as I almost ran to my desk and ripped open my bag to find the notepad, kneeling on the floor where I had tucked it away.

I kept flicking through, looking for the sentence I faintly remembered from that day, searching each and every page for the memory of those words as I knelt over the booklet which rested on my knees. It took me a while, but I found what I was looking for and I exhaled at the sight.

**You don’t have to take me anywhere, waiting around was kind enough.**

And underneath the ‘anywhere’, just as the lady had said, in minuscule and rough writing was a telephone number.

“Marco. Hey Marco, what’s up?” Armin was walking towards me, flanked by Connie and Sasha. “Jean’s just finished his bit, and he was bright red and- what are you looking at?”

“S-sshe was t-t-t-tal-talk-k-ing a-aabout me.” I lay the notepad on the table, letting the trio see the words that I had written only a few days ago as I slowly stood up straight, my back popping in protest and my face becoming warmer by the second.

“No fucking way dude, that’s creepy.” Connie stared intently at the page, bald head blocking the others view and Sasha hitting him around the back and moaning to try and get him to move out of the way. “What was this about?”

“So do you get the other stuff as well?” Armin asked. I just nodded, not wanting to explain what I had happened after we left lunch yesterday. “I got the French bit; he slips into it sometimes and it gets annoying.”

But that wasn’t what I was concentrating on. The questions were irrelevant. I was thinking that if Madame Rose had known about this and was correct, then what she had said about Saturday might be true, too. And that meant that he wanted to go out with me on Saturday. I’d asked Jean out, and he had said yes.

**

I didn’t message Jean until I got home, my futile attempt to draw out the suspense made the work day seem both boringly long and scarily short. The work sent to me seemed overly complicated and yet each one seemed too easy to finish. Even Reiner had sorted out his act and actually sent me a decent length of writing that only needed a bit of tweaking. Apart from that, the rest were reasonably normal, even if they were mostly completely tedious political pieces that practically put me to sleep. No one came to see me for the rest of the day, and my lunch time was spent with a supermarket sandwich and a large cup of bitter-black tea, scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed with a great lack of energy and interest.

The workday finished at exactly my predicted time, which just made the day that more terribly exciting. I’d spent my time predicting the hour and the minute and the second that I could go home. I worked out alternative routes and followed my plan to cut the time I spent in a quick walk back to the flat down by at least one minute- one minute closer to asking him questions. One minute closer to me opening the criss-cross wired door to the apartments, up the four flights of unclean stairs and to my door.

To the green door that lead into my lonely existence.

I threw my bag onto the floor by the door, keys in the hand-me-down bowl. The living room was too quiet without music, so I turned it on to listen to the go-to station that was on constant standby, and always blaring the same stereotypical pop [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCifUdogjO8) over and over. As it played I made my way into the bedroom, digging around in the pile of wires by the side of my bed to find the hidden phone.

My phone was practically pointless and was only used to text a few family members every now and then. It had been so long that I wasn’t even sure it had credit on it any more. Still I took it out into the other room and dropped it on the sofa before digging around in my bag for the notepad, bringing it back and collapsing onto the sagging cushions.

The page was marked with a dog ear and I turned it, carefully studying my words. It felt like so long ago, and I wasn’t even sure what they meant any more, what I had thought and felt when I put them down. Had I been flirting, had I been grateful or annoyed or what?

I knew what I wanted now. The past few days had been strangely weird without his presence, and I’d even missed the sarcastic comments that came along with his emails. In a week I had gone from being alone, to having someone who understood how I felt. I wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to get so close or how he’d managed to get me to say so much. If normal was a word I could use, that was how our conversations felt: normal. There was nothing mentioned unless it was asked, nothing about my voice or how badly I had messed up. If I wrote, I wrote. If I talked, I talked. I wasn’t called out for stuttering, or being interrupted or allowing myself to be helped along like I couldn’t do it alone. Jean understood that I could. I could talk, and people could have the patience to listen, as he did. That was special for me.

The number was placed into my phone among the three other contacts. One had been useless for a long time. It was sad to say, but he was the first person other than a family member whose name was in my phone. The ancient conversations with my Aunt and a second cousin had soon stopped once I came out as gay in the unforgiving home town.

How do I start a conversation? What do I write when I have no clue what to say.

**To Jean: She was right.**

The truth.

The credit pinged up on my phone. I had something on there, but not much, not enough for any substantial conversation.

It didn’t take long for the reply to pop through.

**From Jean: She said that you’d say that.**

**From Jean: And she was right about Saturday as well… if you still want to go…**

**To Jean: That’s why I asked. Would 7 be ok? The same place?**

**From Jean: Sure.**

I thought that the conversation was over, putting down the phone with barely enough credit for another text. I rose to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, gulping half of it down before replacing it, revelling in the cool spread that ran down my throat and chilled my chest. And then I heard a ring from the phone. It wasn’t expected, and it took a few moments before I had the courage to walk into the same room as the noise.

The phone was staring at me, the green screen flashing with a tiny picture of an unopened envelope. I opened it.

**From Jean: Just wondering, but is this a date? ;)**

There was a sharp involuntary intake of breath as the phone rang with the total of my credit, the balance dangerously low, even with this tiny exchange. So I waited a few seconds to cool my mind and steady my breathing from the last message of words before replying, a small grin escaping onto my lips at my one futile chance to flirt.

**To Jean: Only if you want it to be (I kind of do :)). And I’m running out of credit, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow.**

I laughed, sitting down on the sofa and listening to the music that played in the room. The phone sat next to me, buzzing and ringing furiously around the music in mismatched beats.

**From Jean: … OH MY GOD :D**

**From Jean: Are you kidding me Marco?**

**From Jean: You had literally better not be kidding me or I swear...**

**From Jean: akkkkjllttuvv11kgghhhppd**

**From Jean: Marco seriously ARE you kidding? Please reply cause I’m kinda freaking out here.**

**From Jean: oh right no credit.**

**From Jean: BUT YOU ASKED ME OUT ON A DATE!**

**From Jean: I SAID YES.**

**From Jean: well kinda.**

**From Jean: BUT IM REALLY FUCKING GLAD I DID KINDA SAY YES BECAUSE OH GOD FUCKING HELL.**

**From Jean: God damn you, you freckled messiah. Can’t I call you or something?**

I just left him to rant, laughing to myself at the frantic messages.

And then a call came through. I stopped giggling as the generic ring tone battled against the music in the background. It was him, and I picked the phone up, holding it away from my ear.

“Marco look I know it’s not the best way to contact you but-“ I switched the phone so that his voice was louder than the dull background beats, “- holy God damn hell Marco you couldn’t say that you wanted it to be a date on Saturday? ‘Cause then I wouldn’t have been worrying all weekend and I probably would’ve-“

“Y-y-you wer-r… we-ere worr-ried?”

“Fuck yeah I was. I acted like a dick and I should have just said yes when I was with you rather than you hearing it on that show which I also should have told you about. Damn, Marco,” he laughed down the phone, “what made you think I’d be someone good to ask out?”

The laugh that escaped my throat burnt in shock and in a strange jolt happiness. “I… I th-think you’re n-n-n-ni-ice,” I tried to say around our joint laughter, his muffled from the call.

“Nice seems like an exaggeration at the moment. But uh,” Jean stopped talking, my laughter calming, “umm thanks for, y’know… I would have taken a while to er, pluck up the courage to ask, I guess.”

“Y’welc-come,” I replied, the smile creeping back onto my lips at how I’d made Jean admit what he had. I felt a strange sense of power from it.

“Oh, and don’t mention this to the others, or we’ll both probably get killed by Sasha and Connie… I’m not kidding.” I could easily imagine that it wasn’t, and I hummed in agreement down the line before he spoke again. “Er, I’m heading back tomorrow, so I’ll be back in the office on Wednesday. You in then?”

Internally, I cursed my schedule, shaking my head before realising that movement doesn’t translate over a phone, so I rolled myself off of the couch, stretching my legs as I talked “No, I-I’ve g-got W-ww-w…ww-w-wednesd-day off.”

“Well, Thursday then.”

“S-ssure. Um, I- I’ve k-kin-nn-nda got to uh-g-go so-“ there was a tiny light flashing on the phone, and I worriedly thought that it might be the phone threatening to cut me off.

“Oh right. Uh, bye Marco.”

“Bye, Jean.” I didn’t want to press the end call button, half expecting Jean to end the call (that I didn't really want to stop) for me as I stood completely still, waiting for the beep of the dial tone. It didn’t come. “Uh, he-hello?”

“Oh. I thought you were gonna end the call.”

“I th-th-thought you w-w-wwere!” the words probably came out a bit too high pitched as I head Jean’s surprised voice, and he laughed when he heard, subdued, pleasant and welcome.

“Jesus. Okay Marco I’m ending the call. See you soon.”

“’K-kay. Bye,” I laughed, imagining Jean’s blushed cheeks as the ceaseless whine finally sounded and I pressed the tiny red button on my phone, my face just as red as the one I imagined.

[The](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXPE4aB7PLw) butterflies were starting to flap their wings in the base of my stomach and I gripped the shirt that hung loose over that area, trying to calm them down with my endless delight and the small circular motions that my fingers made as the song starting singing in the background. My heart raced at the memory of the conversation, at the memory of his voice as he said my name and the hint of sadness when he said goodbye. I put the phone on the couch once again and made my way into the kitchen, removing the half-finished bottle of water from the fridge and downing it in one go, breathing heavily as the cold spread into my stomach, quenching the hungry movement of the butterflies and cooling down the fire that had lit itself as we talked.

And then the scale of what I had done hit me; I had asked.

 _I HAD_.

I’d done two things that had completely blown my mind. The first was that I had asked Jean to go on a date with me, and he had said yes. He called me to say that he wanted to, that he was happy that I had asked him. The second thing was the phone call itself. That was the first time I had ever had a conversation over the phone and I’d only just realised that. My mother had never let me use the phone, thinking that others would find it frustrating, and I’d always ended up writing letters or emails or visiting someone in person. I’d pick up the phone and immediately pass it on without a word if someone asked for one of my parents.But that was the first conversation I had ever had over the phone, and it couldn’t have gone any better.

The music I had on in the background kept playing, guitar chords in harmonious synchronisation and making my head spin as I tried my hand at singing the lyrics with a shaking voice, interrupting myself with dizzy laughter.

This was happiness. This was how people are supposed to feel. Every day should be filled with wonderful moments that you swear you’ll never forget, that made your bad moments seem so weak, so small in the patchwork of your life, the good times filling up and covering all the mistakes and missed stitches. Even if you are alone, the moments you remember for being wonderful are the times that seem so categorically large in your timeline that you could never forget; the chunks of tiny time that make you who you are and lay themselves bare on your skin, in your eyes and in your words.

Standing in the kitchen and singing badly to a whiny soft-rock song as I let my mind wander at the thought of the rest of the week was one of those moments, and I never forgot how perfect life felt in that moment, because I never understood before that that type of joy was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for all of the Kudos and hits.... It got to 100 hits and I might have cried a little 'cause emotions aren't exactly my forte.
> 
> Also, this is out earlier than I thought again but it's because I really don't like Chemistry and there's a very high chance I'll fail it anyway so eeh, I might as well do this instead.
> 
> Last note... I had one of those days whilst I was writing when my music was just so in sync with my emotions and I had to stick a load of hyperlinks in because I was like "hey, I'm sure people will appreciate Marco's terrible music taste" so I did it and now you guys will probably hate me a little.
> 
> Sleep tight.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	6. Jean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Apologies for the terrible French. Apologies for the terrible writing in general.
> 
> But Jean is a nerd, so it's all okay.
> 
> Thank you once again to dark_cacahuete for helping me with translations. I'm sorry for butchering your beautiful language.

For all future references, I have to say that makeup is one of the worst inventions of all time. I spent two days straight finding strange orange gloop in places I never knew existed and numerous wet wipes trying to take it all off. How some people put in on every day, I will never know. No matter how fucking hot I looked, there was no excuse for me to spend way too much money on things that would probably make me break out in spots like I was fifteen all over again.

So sorry guys, no make up for Jean.

But even more exciting than the fact that I could look good in makeup, was the fact that **MARCOASKEDMEOUTOMGGGGG** … which was precisely what I sent to Mikasa followed by the message:

**To Mikky: uh don’t tell Eren I won’t hear the end of it otherwise.**

And her reply was:

**From Mikky: we are going to lunch as soon as you get home :D**

I barely got my ass back into Trost before Mikasa rang me, asking how long I’d be and trying to tease what had happened out prematurely.

“I’m not telling you until I get there. You can wait fifteen minutes.”

“I can’t. I really can’t Jean. This is too… oh gosh, how long has it been?”

“I’m driving Mikasa, you’ll have to wait.” So I put the phone down on her, smiling at the break in her usually calm demeanour. It wasn’t very often that I saw an emotional side to the gorgeous lady, but now was certainly one of them. I enjoyed having the upper-hand on her for once.

We had settled on meeting at the same pub as we had on Saturday, The Three Walls. It was a nice place that sat along the old roads in the dead centre of the city, the old external beams painted black against the stark white of the plastered walls. Inside was modern with old mismatched chairs that had been distressed to the point of no return, and painted an off cream to match the shabby ‘French’ style that was so in fashion, or so I been told on countless occasions by an interior design obsessed Armin.

As soon as I walked through the oak wood door, I went to check our usual table but found it empty. So I looked around, a few mingling patrons with bowls of chips and generic pies sitting and talking quietly. I decided to grab a drink, asking the guy at the bar for the cheapest cider on the menu before finding a small table.

It had been a really long time since Mikasa and I had talked alone and I was really looking forward to seeing her again. Eren wasn’t restrictive of who she saw, but it was no shock to anyone that he wasn’t keen on me and I liked to think that he thought that I was enough of an asshole to force her to leave him. I wasn’t going to say anything; whether she wanted to be with Eren was her choice and she was a strong enough person to choose whether she should be with him or not.

The drink was slowly receding, yet it wasn’t long after I grabbed the table and sat down that a firm hand clasped my shoulder. “You’re gonna tell me everything, gory details included.” I knew it was Mikasa, who skirted around to take the seat opposite mine, smile on her lips, her dark eyes bright with excitement and clutching a glass of what looked like soda.

“I was planning on it. How are you doing?” I asked.

“Ugh, same old stuff. I saw you on Good Morning. Very impressive, I even recorded it so that I could tease Eren with it later.”

I grinned slyly. “Play it all the time and I mean _all_ the time. Just play my bit over and over. I’m sure Eren will love it.”

“Oh God, I don’t even think I could take that much of you,” Mikasa frowned dramatically, hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“Hey, that’s rude. No one can get sick of me. Do you know how much people loved me and the amount of flirting that went on when I was there? I had six people doing my makeup, and all of them wanted a bit of this.” I swiped a hand from my head downwards as though I was a bit of jewellery on the shopping channel. “I’m not even kidding, I had a marriage offer.”

“And you turned it all down for Marco; how very valiant of you.” Mikasa laughed, and I shrugged off her words with a sip of my drink. “I still want to know how that happened by the way.”

My childish excitement made her request very easy to fulfill. I told her everything; I told her about Friday and the Saturday after we had left the group and that I’d kissed him on the cheek to which she ‘aw’ed, forcing my face to deadpan at the reaction. I told her about what had happened at the studio, how Rose had come to me afterwards and told me exactly what his first text message to me would be and how she had been absolutely right about everything. Then there was the phone call. I spent a lot of time on that. When I had rung, I expected a one sided conversation, I had a whole speech prepared. But as soon as he spoke I couldn’t say it all.

“I don’t know Mikky, there’s something about him that’s really different. Like, he doesn’t say much but you can’t help but listen when he does. And he is really funny but I don’t know, I guess people don’t give him credit for it ‘cause it takes a while. He’s… I don’t know… mesmerizing. I mean when he talks I can’t help but stare, like he’s drawing me in or something.”

“So you like him that much?”

“When I talk to him we get on, and yeah I’m not gonna deny that I think he's fucking gorgeous. And I guess I want to get to know him better…” my embarrassment was starting to show, and I put the glass to my lips, shielding Mikasa from my reddening face.

“Good for you. It’s nice to see you actually want to be with someone.”

“What? Like I haven’t before?” My questions came out a bit harsher than what I expected, and I immediately regretted how defensive I sounded.

“I don’t count. You knew you didn’t like me really.”

“I might like guys but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a beautiful lady when I see one.” She laughed, and I smiled back, knowing that my pointless flirting was making her self-conscious. “If I had maybe been a little less gay I so would have tried a bit harder.”

“You can’t say that sort of thing now you have Marco. Save your shitty seducing for him instead.”

“Shitty? Please, my skills of seduction are damn awesome.” My drink was promptly finished with an attempt at a sultry glare and a quick wag of my eyebrows, causing Mikasa to almost snort out the drink she had partially swallowed.

“We need to do this more often. I’ve missed having you around,” she muttered around cleaning the drink off of her face with a tissue.

“I wish you said things like that two years ago instead of “ew get away shitty horse face.” That was not cool Mik.” She slapped my arm as I spoke, shaking her head and her face impassive. “But yeah, we should. It was great seeing you again, y’know, without everyone else’s crazy ass arguments.”

Mikasa nodded and stood up and I followed. Despite my extended holiday, she still had to work, even if her shift times were reasonably flexible. So we walked outside, leaving our empty glasses on the table, still talking and laughing in a way I hadn’t seen in some time.

 As the frigid air got ahold of us both, making Mikasa’s red scarf flap around her neck, we said goodbye and I took her in for a hug I knew she needed. As I wrapped my arms around her back, I let her slip around me. Her grip was tight but occasionally squeezed that little bit firmer as her head dipped into my jacket, breathing deeply but shakily. “If you ever need to talk Mikasa…” That was where we left it. Her eyes spoke to me, and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. It would take some time for her to want to tell me everything, for her to realise that getting whatever was on her chest off was the only way to help. The wistful expression returned to her eyes and she left, leaving me alone in the middle of the freezing street.

**

There are some days in journalism that overall suck. Wednesday was one of those days, and I spent way too long in the arctic November rain as I waited for information on the Black's case that would never come. For countless long and boring hours I waited for a measly bit of news that I could bullshit into one thousand words. Instead I got numb fingers, the beginnings of hypothermia and the cold shoulder from an officer who didn't want to make any sort of comment as he hurried along to do whatever shit high ranking officers do.

And when did Pixis decide to tell me about the police conference on that Friday? Not until I'd been waiting around in the freezing rain until  _six in the evening,_ when he was calling from his lovely warm home with a hot plate of food and a glass of sherry in front of his bald-ass head. 

To top it all off he even said that he had something else planned for me, and that it had been sent by email, in for the same time tomorrow.

I couldn't be asked to stick around the office all evening, so I decided that i'd rather camp in my flat all night and do the work instead. Sure, my flat looked like a shitty hobbit hole ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, and my little dog Titan stank like a rotting piece of meat no matter how hard I washed him (not helped in any way by his weirdly high body temperature that rivaled the surface of the sun). But my desk was kind of a mess, so I tidied that up, my cleaning eventually spreading into the kitchen where I sorted out some of the washing that lay on the floor, almost inside the washing machine but failing to make it on it's own. The rest of the flat was okay, mostly. I just had DVD's and books lying across the living room floor and in the bedroom, the wall covered in shelves that had been build specifically to house them, missing great patches from where I had removed entire collections of a particular authors work to study them in great detail, my collection of hardback Victorian novels spread out on the floor in a circle, The Lord of the Rings sitting open on the coffee table, a stack of modern poetry at the foot of the bed and a pool of watched DVDs by the TV. I couldn't be bothered to put them back just yet.

Eventually I got down to doing the actual work, Titan lying on the pillow hidden under the desk that he called a bed. The article I’d been lumped with absolutely sucked; one thousand words on a study that proved that bacon really _is_ bad for you if you eat too much of it. _Quelle fucking surprise, assholes._ So I spent a few hours writing something that could easily be called scaremongering and slowly becoming less and less interested in everything scientists had to say about anything, eventually standing up to flick through the rows of movies for something to play in the background, ultimately settling on the subbed DVD of Grave Of The Fireflies, the Japanese incredibly unobtrusive and rhythmic against the heavy downpour outside.

It had just reached the point when Seita and Setsuko moved into the abandoned shelter when my doorbell rang, Titan springing up to bark roughly over and over. “Aw fuck. _Je suis sur ma voie_ ,” I muttered as I tapped the dog who was jumping ecstatically around my feet before reaching the panel by the door, clicking  down the button. “Hello?”

“Uh, Jean?” the voice coming down the line was muffled by the constant crash of water but I recognised it almost immediately.

“Marco? What are you doing here?”

“Th-th-hey a-aa-ask-k-ked m-me t-to ddrop off-“ I had turned around to stare out of the window as he talked, suddenly realising that the rain I could hear over the speaker was practically coating the city in a freezing grey wash that was almost too thick to see through. Marco must have been standing in that rain, and I faintly remember that he told me he didn't own a car.

“Oh my God, it’s pissing it down. Hang on, I’ll let you in.” I pulled my finger from the button, opening the door to my apartment and rushed down the couple of flights of stairs to the landing, the whole time rain banged against the walls and roof in a terrible cacophony of sound, the door to the apartment building flooding the space with a dull light. A strange excitement was building in my stomach, making it flip like a mother fucker as I bounced down the stairs. I couldn't wait to see him and the thought of looking at his freckled face made me smile like a kid.

Opening up the door, I saw Marco who was drenched in freezing rain, ebony hair plastered to a flushed face and shivering slightly, the package he was holding quivering and bag pooling water at the zip. Needless to say that even when he looked drowned out, his blithe eyes radiated with their dark light and making my heart jump with his coy smile. “Quick come in.” I waved him inside the building and he obliged, dripping water across the wooden floor and forming a puddle at his feet.

“Um, th-that’ss f-f-for you,” Marco said, thrusting the package in my face, hand trembling with cold as I took it from him. “It’s-s got t-the t-t-tape from Good M-mm… The s-sshow.”

I opened it up, a disc in a plastic case sat inside but as I looked back up, I saw that Marco was starting to head back out into the bitter rain. “What are you doing?" my voice went high with shock, "you can’t go back out in that.” I took a step towards him. His mouth hung open slightly, face blushed, bright eyes lines with shining drops as his head flicked around to look at me. “Just wait in my flat until the rain stops at least.”

Suddenly a sharp barking came from up the stairs, and the ancient beast I called a pet came crashing down with ridiculous momentum for such a tiny dog. Both Marco and I made a noise at once, me squealing “Titan!” in a high soprano tone that had me blushing with embarrassment, and Marco simply saying “oh” before laughing at the tiny, crazed animal pounding down the stairs before it scuttled towards Marco.

“I-is he yo-o-yours?” he leant down to pet the tiny dog. Titan was having a nice time, licking the hand that stroked him and yapping so loudly that the neighbours were probably going to complain again.

“Sadly yes. I’m gonna have to carry him all the way back the stairs now.” I walked over to take the tiny animal, lifting from the floor with a dramatic groan and muttering _“Met la en veilleuse Titan,”_ under my breath as I took the first few stairs up to the flat, Marco walking behind me with wet steps.

“W-w-what does th-that m-m-mmean?” He asked as we reached the first landing, “Meyla anvayoose?” His pronunciation was shocking, but hell, I wasn't going to call him out on it and I forced my mouth against the pleased smile that was appearing. It was strange how the sounds came out ridiculously fluidly compared to his broken English. Part of me thought that perhaps he was never born to say the language we wrote and spoke in every day.

“I just told him to shut up.” Marco breathed a laugh and I turned to look at him as he walked up the stairs, taking in how much his thick jumper was sagged and dripping with water. “You look fucking freezing.”

“I-I am.”

We came up to the open door of my apartment, Japanese still sounding in the background. As soon as I put a yapping Titan down on the floor I made my way to the kitchen, dropping the folder on the counter and filling the kettle up with water before whacking down the button. Whilst waiting for it to boil I walked back out into the main space to see Marco stripping off his soaked jumper.

The first thing I noticed was his very, _very_ toned stomach, glistening with water that dripped down the ridges of muscle before disappearing past the hem of his jeans, and the broad shoulders that I knew he had seemed so much stronger in the dim outside light. The ripple of movement along his back as he lifted the soaked woolly mess over his head was breathtaking when it was caught in the greens and blues of the screen, freckles that patterned the blades of his back mottled his oak skin, water-blackened hair pasted flat against him and dripping wet against the nape of his neck. Marco looked... God-like, saintly. If someone had told me that he had fallen from the sky, I would have believed them if I saw him like this. He was breathtakingly beautiful. I could feel my breath hitch when I saw him, heart racing my blood faster and heating me up, body and face responding to the slice of freckled heaven stripping in front of me.

The urge to stand and stare was overwhelming but I couldn't let myself look like a complete dork, waiting around for Marco see the embarrassing bulge in my pants grow. Instead I hurriedly made my way into the bathroom, picking up a fresh towel and then into my bedroom. I started to root through my wardrobe, finding an oversized jumper that he could wear before walking back out, Marco still topless and glistening with water, watching Seita and Setsuko steal tomatoes from a field. “Here.” He turned to me as I spoke, pink flushing across his nose and cheeks and wide eyes shifting to the floor before I carried on, “I’m making tea as well if you want some.”

He nodded, grabbing the jumper and towel from my hands with a polite “t-thannks”, bringing the towel to his head and rubbing his hair. I went back into the kitchen just as the click signaled that the water was boiled so I took two mugs from a shelf, grabbing a pair of tea bags and dropping one in each, breathing in the steam that rose from the mugs and allowing it to calm my shot nerves. Marco was still in the other room but asked loudly “I-I’ve n-never seen th-this bef-ffore, is it g-good?”

I guessed he was talking about the film so I replied, “you have to watch it from the beginning to understand what’s going on but yeah, it’s amazing. Really sad though.” The water was starting to dim around the teabag so I reached into the fridge, pulling out some milk. “Do you have milk?”

“No, n-nothing t-t-thannks. K-k-k-kee-eep the t-te-eea ba-ag in t-too.” I nodded even though he couldn’t see, putting milk into one of the mugs and leaving the other to brew black. “Y-you don-nn’t ha-have to l-let me ss-sst-tay.” His voice was closer this time, and I turned to look at him, standing in my jumper that was still slightly too small for his broad shoulders, pulled tight over his chest as he spoke. The towel was draped around his neck, hair not parted but messy, some roughly failling over his forehead and sticking up in all directions. It drew the breath out of me slightly, blood once again not quite deciding whether to concentrate on heating up my face or swelling my junk.

“Just sit down and drink the God damn tea.” I passed his mug of tea over to him and bustled past to make my way to the couch before I allowed myself to do anything stupid, sinking into the cushions and trying to find the remote was a welcome distraction from the blushing freckled face walking nervously towards me. Marco followed, sitting against the arm rest on the other side of the couch, sipping his tea that still had the teabag in, back straight and rigid against the blanket that hung over the back rest. Finally I pulled the oblong plastic shape from the gap between the cushions and pressed the menu button, the characters stopping briefly before it switched back to the start of the movie once again.

“I-I’d pro-o-b-bably b-better go s-ss-soon.”

I let the silence before the film start prove my next point; the rain battered every surface it could, pinging the windows hard, the roof above clattering with the falling water. “It’s practically a monsoon out there. Just wait until it calms down a bit at least.” I kept my eyes on the screen but the couch seemed to shift when out of the corner of my eye I saw Marco nod and relax back into the seat. A small grin crept onto my lips.

It didn’t take long for him to start crying. It was a few minutes in when Seita was dying in the train station and the man prodded him with the mop before throwing away his tin, the ashes falling out onto the grass. Then just as the ghost of Setsuko emerged, he cupped his mouth with his hand, the dim slap catching my attention and I could see that his eyes were wet, shining from the light of the screen. I just smiled, knowing that it was going to get a lot sadder and mentally preparing myself for _the feels_.

By the time their mother had died we were both bawling. Our emptied mugs had been discarded on the floor and somehow we had managed to shift closer together, our legs up on the seat and leaning against one another’s, shoulders pressed together. Whenever a part came that made Marco upset, he’d press his face into my shoulder, sniffling until it was over. After a while it got slightly happier, so he lifted up his head, eyes still trained on the words that flashed on the screen.

Then, we reached the scene at the doctors. Without warning, a pair of arms were flung around me, gripping my shoulders tightly and hugging my chest. Marco's face was buried into the crook of my neck, sobbing loudly and I let him wipe his streaming eyes against the crumpled shirts collar and his fingers weaved into the fabric. I was crying too, eyes filling with ears that spilled down my cheeks. But I forced the sagging muscles in my face to raise, giving a weak smile before muttering with a stiff voice "sad enough for you, huh?" The sniffles stopped and the quivering mass of ebony hair stopped with it, slowly lifting so that Marco's galaxy skin was revealed, eyes enlightened with crystalline tears that made the bundles of stars bright in the colourful light. Then he muttered something incoherent as he ducked back down to stare at the screen through the stitched gaps in the jumper.

_Since when did I like acting like a love-sick teenager?_

_How the fuck did it end up like this?_

It wasn’t until the funeral pyre for Setsuko had been lit until I noticed that Marco had fallen asleep on my arm, his legs gripping my ankles as he breathed into my chest, one firm arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other holding the front of my shirt with long fingers that ducked through the buttons running down the front. I couldn’t move, and honestly didn’t want to. He was warm, soft breathing calming and in time with the soft plink of strings and whistling flute, rain calming slowly in the wet murkiness. There wasn't a time that I could remember when I felt so warm, both in body and mind. Marco was heating my skin with his simple touch, the city-rain smell damply battled his hair, strong with warm, saccharin mandarin that blended with the unforgettable scent of him.  The summer that sat on his skin filled my head, his heat calming, gentle. I couldn't bring myself to let him go and leave me in the dark and cold of the outside world, and there was no way that I also wanted to disturb the sleeping face that released sweet breath onto my slowly heaving chest. So instead I left myself to be tangled in his limbs and allowing myself to rest my head against his arm before shutting my eyes and falling asleep as the bitter-sweet music ended and left us both in our mellow darkness.

_Why do strangers become so close?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts!  
> 1) I've been watching Breaking Bad whilst writing and editing. Then the other night I was reading it through and I came across the line "my desk was a mess, so I tidied up my crystal meth-" you can understand why I woke up my entire house at almost three in the morning.
> 
> 2) I have started listening to the angsty music I listened to years ago, and I had both the worst and most fabulous taste in music ever.
> 
> 3) My friends think i am an internet god. So thanks guys for all of your kudos'es and hits and WOAH. That stuff. Many loves for you people. Kissy kissy kissy.
> 
> Don't let the bed bugs bite!
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	7. Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF ALERT!!!!  
> ANGST ALERT!!!
> 
> WEEE WOOO WEEE WOOO :D

I was outside, sitting under a towering, limp armed tree that sung in the breeze outside of the short wall of the garden. My head and shoulders lay outside of it’s cool circle, and they burnt with a light that pierced my eyelids and made me squint against the idea of opening them, against the blinding yellow of the sun. If only the glow didn’t burn so brightly, as it did on my stomach, my legs, my fingers that wound into the tendrils of invisible softness that lay atop my stomach, in the subdued dark that clung to me. The dimness held some heavy weight, a warmth that felt so different from the exposed part of me; it brushed my skin, it chilled my existence, relaxed it… and yet there _was_ warmth. The bright heat on my face was painful, but this was like being wrapped up in a blanket with another soul, sitting in the dark and waiting for sleep to come.

My body moved into the comfortable darkness. I shifted, letting my hands drift down the reams of hidden wisps until my hot hands reached the cool contact of skin.

I saw it then, the dark mass that had once coated me in a blanket now lying firm and heavy on me. It pressed heavy on my heaving stomach, reaching out to grab my waist, holding onto me with soft, twitching digits. And I had my hands on it, pulling it down and increasing the friction that was hard against my crotch, the heat that once touched my face pooling fiercely and swimming with pulses of hot ardour, the image of the dark clearing so that I could see, so that the _hair_ that tickled my chest through a thick jumper became visible, gentle face burying into the borrowed softness. His legs, spreading mine as he lay between them in complete firm contact of me.

My eyes were open now and yes, I had a hard-on that pressed right into the centre of Jean’s stomach as he lay atop me, breathing onto my shoulder as I held him down with my arms. My fingers had curled into his hair, subconsciously wrapping myself in the long, cool blond that hung over his shut eyes. I pulled one hand away, reaching down to move the curtain of hair, revealing a face of complete peace, no harsh scowl or bright smile. There was relaxation in that face and I smiled at it. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb his sleep.

After a while I softened, grateful that he hadn’t woken up with a raging hard cock pressed into his stomach. That would have been awkward. The rain had also now calmed considerably, a dim light passing from two places in the room and a faint snoring coming from somewhere behind me, which I presumed was Jean’s tiny dog. Time in this sort of light always confused me; too dark to be the middle of the day but not light enough to be considered any sort of decent morning. I had to be in at eleven, so time wasn’t an issue. The same couldn’t be said for Jean who I knew started at nine on Thursdays, his work the first to be due in on that day.

“Jean?” my voice cracked for not speaking for so long, the sound lower and yet more fluent than normal.

“Hmmph,” was the reply I got, along with Jean’s sleeping face scowling as his arms gripped me tighter and he hid in the jumper I was wearing, sighing deeply, the warmth of his breath spreading onto my chest.

“Jean, c-c-come on. Y-you-u’vve got w-w-work.” I pulled my arms from his back and suddenly he jumped up at the removal of the weight.

“Huh?” at once he relinquished his grip, arms pushing his head and shoulders from me and I shuffled back from underneath him. “Oh God, did we fall asleep? I’m sorry for kinda, y’know, lying on you.” Jean sat up on his legs, yawning and groaning as he stretched just arms and arched his back. I took it as my opportunity to pull my legs that had wrapped around him and I pulled them over so that they lay flush on the floor, wriggling my toes against the cold wooden boards. A sharp set of nails being dragged rhythmically across the hard surface of the apartment drew quickly towards the couch, and I faintly heard Jean say something in French to the dog. His eyes avoided mine as he petted the tiny animal and I noticed the adorable flush coloured his cheeks and nose.

“Wh-hhat’s-s t-th-he t-tiime?”I asked sleepily, blushing as Jean stretched again with a deep exhale that quickened my heartbeat and made my breath shake.

He just picked up the TV remote, flicking the buttons until a menu flashed on screen, the blue light dazzling. “Six fourteen.” Jean looked down at me, face amused, “so you’re a morning person, huh?” I stood up and rolled my shoulders to tug the stiff muscles in my back, ignoring the question. Who _is_ a morning person? Even in the semi-darkness I could feel a pair of eyes on me and I turned to Jean sharply, whose blush grew darker as he looked away, walking around the couch and into the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked as he disappeared around the corner.

“Uh, t-tea. Iff-f th-h-hat’s okay.” I rolled my shoulders, looking around the almost dark room in search of a light switch. I found it, the brass panel containing three switches that I simultaneously flicked, causing my eyes to squint and a cry of “Jesus fucking Christ” to spill from the kitchen.

For the first time, I properly took a look around. The place was nice, rather small but open. An entire wall from floor to ceiling was filled with books, discs and- _are those comics and manga?_ I stepped closer, running my fingers along the used spines, following the titles of each one, not in any particular order or author structure. It was chaotic how they were organised; large gaps of books missing and others sticking out of the wall from where they no longer fitted from being moved around so often. I began to sort it out, collecting the circle of Penguin Classic books from the floor and filing them systematically into a space. But there were more. The search continued as I spotted the dark doorframe hidden in the mass of colour and I stepped through, realising that it was a bedroom. Books were piled at the end of the bed in three stacks of various precarious heights. Picking several up from the floor, I returned them to the wall before grabbing some more in five trips until the end of the bed was freed from the paper weight.

I thought I was done, when I spotted another book, closed on the bedside table. Unsure of whether I should put it back or not, I picked it up. The cover was a dark shade of green, blue and white wings adorning the font cover with the title, 'L’Attaque des Titans' in white scratched and bloodied old-style writing, and Jean Kirschtein written across the bottom in a smaller, equally bloody font. I flicked it over to the blurb, not understanding what had been written, but a strong excitement rising in my chest.

 _Jean had never told me that he had written a book?!_ It was still in my hand, and I walked back out into the open space of the living room, finding the author holding two steaming mugs. His amber eyes caught mine before flicking to the book, the blush that had been absent blooming again, mouth falling open and then shutting quickly before he spoke “oh, you found it,” licks of horror tinting the words.

“Y-yo-ou d-d-di-dn-n’t te-ell me th-that you wrote a b-b-bo-ook.”

“Well it’s in French so…” he shrugged, passing a mug over to me, teabag thankfully still floating around in the dark brown liquid. I thanked him, still trying to figure out the words on the blurb. “And it’s not finished. There were going to be three books but I can’t figure out what to write next.”

“Wh-hat’s it ab-bout?” I questioned, opening the book with one hand and finding it filled with scribbles in French, words changed and lines completely crossed out to replace it with new language.

“It’s based on some dreams I had as a kid. There are these things called titans” the dog barked in response to his name and I laughed, Jean muttering “not you buddy” under his breath before continuing, “and they eat people. So everyone built these walls a long time ago, and everyone lives inside them. Then these kids join the military, trying to kill them all, uh- It’s a long story.”

“I g-guessed,” I jumped the thick book in my hand so that the spine smacked against my palm, taking another sip of tea before teasingly gave it to it's creator before tearing it away, knowing that my actions would have to speak louder than my words. I raised an eyebrow. “You-u’ll h-h-hav-v-vve to r-rread it-t t-to mm-me some tim-mme.” A purposefully coy smile spread onto my lips, and I raised the mug to my face again, peering, wide-eyed and mischievous, over the rim as I looked down at Jean, who was slowly coming to terms with my bad and broken attempt at flirting, eyes glinting brightly as he grinned lop-sidedly and took a step closer, swilling his coffee in hand and it’s thick smell rising from the cup, bitter unlike him, the sultry difference making my heart beat irregularly in anticipation.

“Well if you come back here after our _date_ on Saturday, maybe I will.” Thin eyebrows raised against his pale skin, the return shot of flirting causing my face to heat up, and I could see him smile as he studied the cerise of my cheeks. “And maybe we’ll do some other stuff as well.”

My head rushed with the suggestion and I blinked before deadpanning. “D-drr-rink yo-our cof-ff-ffee,” I said, flicking the book back into the air in the hopes that I could give it back, smiling like a Cheshire cat behind the cup of morning brew.

That didn't happen. I gently tossed the book again, letting it fall back down and hit my palm with a satisfying smack. But my fingers didn’t quite grip it in place, the smooth cover breaking away from the contact of my hand and for one shocking moment, I felt it’s smooth surface slip from my between my fingers.

The book fell to the floor, slapping the ground loudly, a soft grunt coming from Titan. I followed the loud noise with my eyes, looking down as the book jumped into the air before landing, its pages spilling open to the centre where the words were written in red and I reached down to grab it, Jean mirroring my movement as I apologised, and he just chuckled slightly as he gently tugged the book from my fingertips. My gaze fled back up, suddenly realising how close Jean and I were kneeling, the book shared between our hands, our link. This was the third time he had been so close to me, other than our unintentional sleep session, and his clean lemon smell was starting to get into my nose, filling my head with his scent as I looked to his eyes.

They flicked between my gaze and my lips. His unblinking, golden eye contact was never broken as we stood together, even as I rose that little bit further, as I almost stood over him, constantly looking into his eyes, hand slowly forgetting the book. _“Puis-je vous embrasser?”_ The foreign words were sweet and low against my lips, edging closer, breathing deeply and tickling my skin with citrus heat. My breath caught and I blinked before returning to his eyes, the delicate, tired curve beneath them tinted with a grey darkness that only made his eyes brighter, the single, faint freckle that sat just under the flutter of faint lower lashes.

“W-what d-doe-es t-th-h-hat m-mean?” I was almost silent with my fractured question. But he heard. His body shifted a touch closer, his heat, his lips edging that moment further towards mine, still watching me, still taking in whatever he saw of me, whatever deep shade that sat on my skin.

Jean really did have beautiful eyes. They vibrated with energy, the tawny irises warm and rich and deep, strong and honest, dripping with a mesmerising, unfathomable emotion that sat somewhere on the spectrum of excitement and expectation, wrapped in a deep beauty I couldn't quite place my finger on. I would write for them, I could spend hours trying to describe what I saw in them, the reverse galaxy, the spots of ink that darkened the ecru strands that dipped and weaved in the early light, mixed with the shreds of gold, of the sunlight and of the leaves that hung from the trees as they waited for a breeze, for their last moments of life before their inevitable death. 

They rustled with movement, as did he, edging closer with a slightly upturned mouth, lips parted, licked once in preparation of his words.“I asked if I could kiss you.” Jean inched just that little bit closer, his chest touching mine as he raised himself up onto his toes, looking to my soul with deep sincerity as he roughly spoke the words as our eyes leveled. “Can I, Marco?”

The way he said my name. I could feel my face going red at the low tone, floating out in a soft whisper that made me want to make him say it again. My free hand slipped instinctively onto his raised waist, my hot forehead pressing against his, eyes still open to look deeply into the honey pools that filled with a blossoming affection, taking the burning scent that curled in the soft of his skin. I gripped him, fingers not holding the cumbersome mug holding the thin shirt he was wearing instead. His breath grew loud and ragged, feverish against my lips, his acrid coffee mixed with sweet lemon catching my tongue. I wanted to taste him.

 _“Oui.”_ My bad French was weak against his, but I tried. Jean seemed to like it, moving closer as my eyes closed and our lips pressed together with a tender burst of hot excitement. Instinctively I opened myself up as Jean ran his cool tongue across the groove of my lips, my arm pulled him closer to me to try and deepen the way his delicate mouth moved slowly against mine. A shot of his sultry breath hit hard over my top lip when I did, and I pushed hard, taking his bottom lip in my teeth to try and make him move faster, harder against me. Jean gasped roughly, moving his arms around my head and-

That was where our moment broke. We had been holding our hot drinks the entire time and when Jean went to lift his arms around me, the coffee he was holding clattered against my chest, the lukewarm beverage spilling across my jumper and his face, making us split apart at the sudden wet shock.

“Shit.” My arm split apart from his waist to let a swearing Jean go, his head shaking out the coffee from his hair, running his hand through the darkened tresses as I pulled the damp wool away from chest, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours soaked to the bone. “Are you okay? That was really stupid of me.”

“I-I’m f-fine, Jean. J-j-u-sst wet.” I took the mug for Jean, looking around before putting them on a nearby table where I stayed, watching as Jean picked the book up from the floor where it had once again been dropped from out hands without us noticing. “I’ll w-was-sh this-s for y-y-you at m-mine.”

“No it’s okay, don't worry about giving it back. It’s too big for me anyway.” He groaned as he stood up before walking over and putting the book on the table next to the discarded mugs. “You’ll probably want to go back to yours to change. I’ll drop you back at yours before I ruin anything else.” Jean’s expression dropped, soft eyes looking to the wet patch on the floor.

Without even thinking I took his arm in my hand, pulling him closer as he looked up with wide, strangely innocent eyes, questioning what I had just done. My other hand ran through the stained patch of hair, teasing his head so that I could wipe away the drying patches of fake freckles and he leant into it gently, letting my fingers touch the drops from his skin. My voice was strained; I forced it to be as perfect as possible, not wanting any sense of doubt to falsely wrap around my words. “You d-didn’t rruin it,” I tried before leaning down to him, watching as his eyes fluttered shut, feeling his arms take my shoulders as I kissed him again.

I held it, my lips melding into his, sweet lemon taste spreading, teasing me again with a parting heat. My control broke and let myself reach into him with my tongue, working the velvet lips that played with me, arms pulling at my shirt and dragging my down and forcing me to hold tighter, to grip his waist and hold him close, and to let our heats mingle in the early morning grey.

It was short and sweet, the dangerous heat of passion cooled with the spilled drink. I pulled away to hold his strong face in my hands, thumbs rubbing along his sharp cheekbones, justifying the action with invisible drops. “I… I n-need t-to go ba-a-ack.” Jean sighed, the grip moving from my shoulders to take my hips, thin fingers skirting around the hem of the jumper, looking into me with a hint of sadness.

His voice was small when he spoke, cracking with the morning light that was filling the room with a golden warmth that matched his eyes, his lips bright from the kissing, the bridge of his nose flushed. “I’ll drive you back to yours. Just tell me where you live.”

**

The car journey was silent, both of us stinking of the bitter coffee that was drying onto our skin and in Jean’s hair. It had ruined the nice jumper he had given me (and that I would definitely return to him later), the thick threads stiff and stuck together. I tried to pull them apart; the only movement I could make that wouldn’t ruin the peaceful quiet that had hung in the air, and I didn’t want to destroy it; the silence allowed me to think.

I had barely realised how much I wanted to kiss Jean until that moment. My attraction towards him had grown exponentially, and now I craved to do it all over again. I wanted to be close to him like I had on the couch, to kiss him hard as I had in the flat, to hold him and say things that he wanted to hear until he held me back, and the warm comfort of his touch said that I had soothed whatever pain he felt. That was a feeling, and it was stronger now that I had tasted him and been so close. Our pull, our magnetism was strangely powerful. We- he and I- scared me slightly. Our time had been so short, and I didn’t want it to stay that way, I didn't want another short lived burst for it to dwindle into nothing. I wanted this to last as long as I could possibly make it, whether that was months, years or for the rest of our lives.

I wanted him.

“It’s around here, right?” his words broke my thought, head raising to look at his forward-looking face. My hands had frozen against the jumper and I nodded as he turned down a road and down the road that lead to my flat, and I pointed him over to a space that was a few buildings down.

“T-t-thanks, Jean.” I smiled, happy to see that he was going the same. The seatbelt strapped across my chest was undone, one of my hands reaching for the handle and opening the door.

I paused, door half open. And without really thinking about it I kissed him again, lightly on the cheek, taking one last long breath against his skin and letting his pleasant freshness catch in my mind. When I pulled away, I noticed that his face was bright red and his mouth agape slightly as I said a broken goodbye and stepped from the car and shut the door.

No matter how much I wanted to look back, to turn around and head back to the car to kiss him again, to feel him one more time, I didn’t let myself. I was going home, to get ready and start my day alone.

The flat seemed so cold, so empty and bare compared to Jean’s place. Even with the sight of Scout- the cat that was supposed to live with me but rarely did- I couldn’t feel quite at home. I showered slowly, pulling off the clothes now soaked and a day old and throwing them into the laundry basket before stepping inside the steaming stream of water and letting it rush through my hair and down my back. I followed the drips that ran down my arm. The freckles on my shoulders were fading with the growing cold, and for the first time I wished that they didn’t. I wanted them all to stay the winter and commemorate this morning, so that these new patterns showed something good in my life when I looked at them next. The angel’s kisses could stay longer if they wished; I wasn’t ready to let them go just yet.

**

“Did you drop that thing of at Jean’s?” Sasha asked me in the lift, and I nodded. “So what, did he like it?”

**I don’t know. He didn’t watch it while I was there.**

I didn’t mention that I had stayed all night… platonically, of course... Sort of.

“Good. Black beauty will want to watch it at some point, the vain shit.”

**Since when did you pick up Eren’s habit of calling Jean horse names?**

“Since I didn’t have breakfast this morning.” The dark haired girl’s stomach grumbled loudly in confirmation, and she held it as though she were expecting. He voice became dramatic as she told the story of her morning. “We didn’t have any bagels or cereal or anything ‘cause I had a snack last night, so I went to the supermarket this morning but they ran out of _everything._ I was gonna buy some coleslaw but then Con was like “ew Sash you can’t eat that on its own” and I was like “I will if I want to” and then Con dragged me out of the store so I didn’t eat this morning… do you think I can order a double sandwich? Do you think they’ll let me order two double sandwiches…. And a jacket potato with cheese and bits of bacon?”

**Probably, if you told them that you were ordering for a group.**

The doors of the elevator opened to Sasha’s floor, and she waved hello to a few people as she headed out, shouting across the office floor, “hey guys, Marco’s in the elevator.”

At once, four heads popped out of one booth, two with massive shit-eating smiles plastered onto their faces. Connie and Eren were grinning wickedly, the bald man running to catch the lift before it closed. Armin had a look of utter shock and Jean, well, at first he looked completely annoyed at the two jokers, before turning his gaze into a sympathetic yet slightly scared smile as he watched Connie running to interrupt the closing lift.

I was mashing the button, not looking forward to what Connie had to say when he had that smile on his face. Besides, if I stayed and hung around, I would have been late. That was something I quickly learnt not to be with Mr Ackerman around; three people had been fired in the past week for turning up barely moments late.

But my luck must have run out in Jean’s car this morning, because just before the doors shut, Connie stuck his black clothed arm into the gap, forcing the metal wall apart. I just sighed and let him drag me by the hand across the floor of the office until we reached Armin’s desk, hoping that whatever they wanted wouldn't take too long. I only had ten minutes, and I liked to make sure I was at least a few minutes early.

“Since when were you two going out?” Eren asked loudly.

“We aren’t going out. We’re _going out_ on Saturday.” Jean’s voice was monotone, slightly annoyed as though he had repeated the same thing over and over.

“It’s the same fucking thing, dumb ass.” Sasha shouted, a few steps ahead of me and Connie. "Have you two being doing the do already."

"Fuck off Sasha. And no we haven't because unlike you and Connie, I'd like to think that we had some sort of moral code when it came to dating." Jean leant against the desk, arms folded in resignation.

A hand flew to Sasha's chest, holding her own heart as if it were in pain, an imaginary tear wiped from Connie's cheek as he arrived, speaking for his crazy girlfriend. "Ouch, Jean. That really hurt."

A puff of air came from Jean, who turned to Eren. The turquoise eyes were filled with mock innocence, smiling down at Jean, sitting on the desk. "How the hell did you find out?"

"Mik was trying to text you last night, but your phone was off or some shit, so I asked Sash if she was out with you, and she said that she'd sent Marco around to yours to drop off the disc." A smug smile popped across his lips, "so I put two and two together and came up with our very own in-house stud Spirit having some fun time with poor old Marco."

Sasha 'ooh'ed, Jean rolling his eyes at their childishness. I wasn't liking how this was turning out. I wanted to get out, or to somehow break it up and explain calmly that nothing had happened.

Well, not  _nothing._

The last thing I needed, they all needed, was to be caught up in a pointless argument about something that was strictly between me and Jean. I was slipping away, slowly edging towards the elevator, not liking how Jean came to stand up against Eren, the other man returning the stance, determined mocking stare, eyes flashing between him and me. 

"Stop it Eren. It's none of your business."

I know, but I still like finding out anyway." Eren turned to me, large smile on his lips, head flicking his dark hair upwards in acknowledgement of my presence. "Hey Marco, why did you agree to go out with Fru-Fru over here?”

“I-I a-aa-a… a-aaa-a-aa...“ my voice wouldn’t carry on pas the ‘a’, trying and trying over the shock of the conversation, my self consciousness around the faces that were beginning to look up and stare at our loud conversation, trying to talk around the slowly rising panic of the time and the worry of being late. I couldn't say a word, I couldn't talk, nor did I have the time to dig out my notepad before the frustrated sigh that escaped Eren's lips, one that I knew too well and followed by the most discouraging phrase known to my ears.

“Come on Marco, spit it out,” Connie laughed as Eren’s words, Jean and Armin gasping loudly and both of them looking to me. But at the sentence I had come to hate so much, I dug my feet in and pulled myself away from them all walking back out to the elevator, eyes starting to prickle with heat, breath coming too bitterly as I felt myself give in to the fast approaching floor.

 

I had gone so far from home, hoping never to hear that sort of thing again. As a kid, as an adult. It was everywhere, stupid and pointless comments that didn’t need to be said. “Cat got your tongue? Bit of a tongue twister, huh? It’s not that difficult to say…”

_“Spit it out.”_

If there was a way that I could have stopped without it affecting me, hell knows I would have done it long ago. The years of sitting in offices, in doctors waiting rooms as they spent time checking my perfectly normal vocal chords, giving me countless stupid exercises that I did for hours on end just to find no improvement from one month to the next. Lessons on pronunciation, appointments for useless hypnotherapy, support groups and meandering psychotherapists and all of them said the same damn thing, the same bitter words that kept repeating, kept popping up and pushing me down, the whole hate filled circle starting again and again with every repetition, with every new crowd. _Spit. It. Out._

“You piece of fucking shit Eren.” A voice drifted from the corner of my mind and I barely paid attention. My body had given up, I was collapsing, crumbling under the memory of those words. My vision filled with hot water that was streaming down my cheeks. What had I done to deserve this all over again? The room was so loud, voices in all directions, muttering drawing closer. My breath heaved, the heavy weight on my chest pressing down harshly. I couldn’t draw air, I could barely suck in a breath through a closing throat and a rising panic that was setting in as they called out to me, to each other with loud voices that spoke so easily, spoke without fear of hearing something so stupid and becoming paralysed with memory-

The time the doctor had almost hit me for not being able to say my name.

The days I would sit alone in school, ignored by everyone including the teacher.

The moments in which colleagues had laughed when I'd asked long, rambling questions with no end, no point or structure-

And then an arm. It held my shoulders and pulled me in to a scent I recognised and I turned into it, spluttering childishly and disgustingly against his shirt as he coo’ed and the soft vibration of his voice resonated through my head. I felt bad, keeping him there. Yet he stayed by me, even when the hoard of people were shifted away, even as I heard someone shouting and someone return it.

“Marco? Hey.” Another voice sounded close to me and Jean shifted, raising my head slightly to see Mr Ackerman, kneeling on the floor in front of us. “Get yourself upstairs.”

My voice was muttered, trying to talk through the tears that still streamed, voice hoarse from crying. The hand around my shoulder shifted to my waist as the warm body beside me moved to stand up, dragging me with it. I helped Jean out, pushing my shaking legs against the floor and holding onto his shirt as I shook with sobs. His body resonated with a dull mutter and then I heard the instructive voice again. “You go too.”

Then we were walking, soft sobs still coming from my mouth. But he just “shushed”, leading me forward to the elevator and away from the crowds.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He kept repeating it the whole way. In the lift he said it over and over when the rising lift made my stomach sink and I fell with it, so he held me. The words were said again as “get the fuck out, everyone. Half an hour break for you brats” was screamed across the floor and a mob rushed past. He continually told me that it was okay, the whole way to the office where I was sat down next to him, tissues placed on the table in front of me.

I cried for a while. Both of them let me cry, let me feel sorry for myself for as long as I needed to. Jean silently stayed with me, squeezing my waist whenever I breathed a bit deeper or when the sob came out loudly. Mr Ackerman just sat and watched silently. He observed, only taking in what was happening with no comment or movement to try and hurry me along. The only thing he ever did was take out a notepad from his desk and plucking a pen from a pocket and place them in front of me.

In the end I couldn’t cry any more and I looked up for the first time. We were in Mr Ackerman’s office, Jean and I sharing his large leather chair as the head editor himself sat on the chair I had sat in barely two weeks earlier.  Jean had his arm around my waist, pressing his body into my side with his calming warmth that spoke so differently from what came out of his mouth. “I hate that piece of shit.”

I just breathed out in indignation, letting the sound ring around the room.

“Tch, I wish that I didn’t agree. Although luckily enough for him Erwin decided to go pay the brat a visit.” Mr Ackerman stood, dragging the cheap chair from the end of the desk to sit on my left side, my body between his and Jean’s. “What did that brat say to get you like this?”

I didn’t speak, instead reaching out my left hand to take the pen that lay on the desk, my handwriting sharp and slanted.

**Spit it out.**

“I know that probably seems like nothing to you but-“

“No. I get it.” The tiny boss looked to me, his iron eyes dark and brooding. “I can understand why it would upset you Bodt. It was certainly insensitive of the little shit. He knew, right?”

“Yeah.” That was all Jean needed to say, voice trailing off when he couldn’t think of much else to continue on with. The pen felt heavy in my hand in my hand, and I let it move with the thoughts that flooded my head.

**He didn’t mean it I’m sure. I overreacted. I should have taken it a bit better.**

The two men watched as I wrote, Jean immediately saying “no” as soon as the pen hit the desk. “You shouldn’t ever say that. It wasn’t your fault that Eren was being a prick. I've known him long enough for him to know you don't say shit like that around _anyone,_ okay? Especially not someone who finds it hard to talk.” His arm gripped tighter and I reached over, the hand that held the pen now holding his white shirt, fingers intertwining in the gaps of the button and grazing his bare skin. I didn’t care. I let myself rest on his shoulder as I had the night before, taking him in with every breath, letting the familiar feeling of comfort spread over me, once again remembering how close we had been.

Mr Ackerman breathed a quick laugh, standing up and making the chair squeak.

“I’m not one for all this crap,” I moved my eyes to look at him, his hand pointing loosely towards us, “but you two are cute as shit, and if I find out that you two aren’t dating then hell, I’m gonna force you brats together.” And he left, striding to the door before opening it and slamming it behind him, leaving Jean and I on his plush leather chair, alone together.

I shut my eyes, letting myself feel warm against Jean. He held such a strange comfort. I felt needed next to him, like he wasn’t quite whole until he was holding someone. I felt the same. Whatever feeling I had, however doubtful I would have normally have felt in those moments was thrown away the second he held me. Jean brought out emotion, never hiding what he felt or thought yet somehow managing to bring other’s emotion to the surface too.

He was so different to me. I kept it in, I held it all until I burst, or until one little thing got me, like the comment and like his film, and then I can’t stop. I let it overflow until nothing remains of my emotion and I am once again left to store it all back up.

“You weren’t supposed to be in yesterday, were you?” Jean’s question came out of nowhere, breaking the silence we sat in and I felt myself flinch at the low words.

I just shook my head. I didn’t want to say another word ever again. So instead I reached out, away from Jean, his arms loosening and slipping down from my waist to my hips, his fingers distractingly close to the waist of my jeans as I grabbed the pen again and started to write.

**I came in to check emails, and then Sasha asked if I could drop the package off to you.**

He just hummed as his hands clasped tighter, pulling me back and he shifted himself underneath me.

_I was sitting on Jean’s lap._

His arm wrapped around my waist, and I could feel his cheek pressing into my back. “Do we have to go back to work, you’re so warm.” I  could feel my face heating up with embarrassment, with the sweet comment I hadn't expected. He had suddenly become so cuddly, and whilst I wasn’t put off by this-not at all in fact- I didn’t expect it of him. “Sash did it on purpose, y’know.”

“Y-y-yeah.” I said quietly, understanding now that she was more cunning and less innocent than I gave her credit for. “B-but I d-ddon’t mmind. I h-h-h-hha-ad a n-ni-ice t-time.”

The arms squeezed in tighter, head shifting on my back and I felt a pair of lips kiss between my shoulder blades under my shirt, sending a ripple of excitement running up my spine, goose-bumps set loose on my skin as he throatily spoke into my white shirt, his sweet, hot breath curling warm into my skin as he mouthed his words, lips curved up against the material in a hidden smile . “I don’t mind either, and I had a nice time too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O  
> M  
> F  
> G  
> 250 hits :) thank you all so much for everything, especially the comments... you know who you are, my flattering piece of loveliness ;)))
> 
> These are going to start coming every Saturday from now on since I've started writing (WHAT ARE YOU DOING DEAR, SILLY BRAIN- EXAMS AND TWO FICS? YOU NUMPTY) a new fanfiction for Eren X Levi... because I had a super rad dream about them and I cried when I woke up because it was so pretty, so it had to be good.  
> (Or horrifyingly awful.)
> 
> But the new one is only one chapter in, and it's a fucking long chapter, like 11,000 words and I haven't even checked it through yet, so it's likely end up at around 12,500.  
> A chapter. 12,500 per chapter.  
> So I'll probably let that one come along a bit slower, perhaps one every ten days/ two weeks or something and I promise that it won't interrupt this one.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for the kudos, the bookmarks, comments and hits. I love you all immensely.
> 
> Sweet dreams!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	8. Jean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean has a bad day.
> 
> Jean goes mad on the references.
> 
> Jean likes sadistic poetry and warm hugs.

I was cold. The room was cold. The blankets that haphazardly draped over me as the curtains blew against the wall beside the window were cold.

That day was cold, and having the window open all night did not help.

I went to being burnt up alive to ‘I-think-rigor-mortis-has-set-in’ in less than twelve hours. Marco’s annoyingly yet wonderfully high body heat seemed to stick to me like glue, and whilst it was lovely for a while, I had to admit that the dude was like a walking space heater with a residual warmth that just didn’t want to shift. Our hands had met on his stomach as we had sat in the office, and I practically felt the steam rising from his skin as his burning digits intertwined with mine, and he had softly sighed as a long, left arm reaching out to write.

**It’s like you’re winter and I’m summer.**

_Well fuck you and your eternal summer whilst I’m one with the wind and sky._

And the cold certainly did bother me, anyway. It bothered me way too much and no way would I just let it go. It wasn’t fair that he could be so warm all of the time and I just ended up freezing my ass off.

Still, the day was young, or so I thought, (nine thirty in the morning counts as an early start, right?) and I wasn’t one to deny myself a good breakfast-

Which immediately left a thought to strike me around the head like a dumb-ass cricket bat; I hadn’t offered Marco breakfast either.

Right there and then, as I opened the bedroom door and headed out into the living room, disgusting dog bouncing around my feet as he pined for food, I decided that I wasn’t a good person. Good people offered guests breakfast and didn’t wake up with their head on their visitors chest as they tried to cover up their God damn morning wood with their shirt. I wanted to slap my own brain, so mentally I did.

“Good work, Kirschtein.”  The sarcastic high-fives were rolling around in a circle in my mind like the conspiring ladybirds. And oh boy, were they scheming; scheming to try and dig my dignity back up from the dank corner of my mind where it had been discarded.

I fed the dog, the food smelling as bad as it looked. I fed myself, the food smelling as bad as it looked.

Today was gonna suck.

**

_“I’m through with standing in line to clubs I’ll never get in-“_

“Please say that this is ironic?” I look at Connie from the corner of my eye, trying my damndest not to smack his stupid bald head into the stratosphere as he sang along with the drowsy singer.

“It’s a good song… _life hasn’t turned out quite the way I want it to be.”_ The country voice asked what I ‘wawnt’ed.

I wanted the stupid radio off.

“No ifs, not buts, no coconuts. And no Nickelback, unless you want to walk across the city with your camera,” I turned a corner, perhaps going slightly faster than I needed to, the car lurching to the right as we started to head down another long road.

_I dropped it into third and leant across to let him out, and saw him in the mirror bouncing off the kerb, then disappearing down the verge…._

_Your words are incredibly tempting this morning, Mr Armitage._

“Either way, I’ve got no Nickelback.” Connie paused, rubbing the spot on his head where he had just hit it against the window, “I’ll stick with the car.”

“You choose wisely.” I flicked the radio off, admiring the wonderfully awkward silence spread throughout the vehicle. In my head, I thought of the questions that I’d love to ask the cops- I wished that I’d written them down that morning so that there was time to grab something to eat when we arrived at the press conference.

Ah, the dreaded press conference; the times when all journalists ended up with exactly the same  hall, listening to the same person for half an hour, before going back to their offices and homes to write identical articles in different newspapers. It’s lazy work- you take notes, you listen, you repeat what they say when you write. Simple, but boring and unimaginative.  Then again, that’s ninety percent of journalism. There’s very little creativity. That’s why blowing a situation out of proportion is so much fun. If the boss allows it, you let your inner power starved demons out and they swarm over your keyboard until you are left with pure, written filth that is somewhat smattered with fact. You exaggerate- if they allow you to.

“How long is the article?”

“Front and page four.” We both knew the length- long enough for the pay to be pretty good.

“You’re getting them a lot recently.” Connie uselessly pointed out.

I just shrugged, hands dipping below ten and two so that the side of my palms leant gently on the bars connected to horn. “You take what you can. In a month I’ll be back two hundreds.” That was also journalism. When they ask you to write big, by hell you do it ‘cause the opportunity doesn’t come around very often- and the money is always wanted.

There was silence in the car again which was strange considering Connie was with me. Perhaps he was only madly talkative around Sasha nowadays, perhaps my grumpy-Friday attitude was incredibly obvious and too foreboding for him to start a conversation.

“So what happened on Wednesday with Marco?” Perhaps it wasn’t ominous enough.

Connie didn’t quite deserve to know. I still remembered the laugh from yesterday. Sure, it was a nervous laugh, but it was still a laugh. Even _my_ throat had caught at the words- Marco wasn’t the only one who knew how painful they could be. ‘Shut up‘ still hurt to hear sometimes.

“He came around and it was raining so he stayed a while. Then he left.” _You big liar, Jean Kirschtein._

I spun the wheel to the right, the buildings growing grander, sandstone fascia carved with intricate rose patterns. This was the good area of town, and it contained all of the parts that newspapers find the most boring, yet most liberating. It was our politics, our law and our controversy. We had a strange, unspoken ruling here- our word changed public perspective, and that meant a lot to those whose characters had to always appear to be close to saintly, and far from the sin that many people assumed went down behind the scenes. Our voice was the one the people heard.

“But you two were all cuddly and shit yesterday. You can’t tell me that nothing went down, I can tell something did, Jean.” I dragged my sigh out loudly. Connie just waited for me to answer, disgustingly optimistic grin plastered on his face. I contemplated telling him about the kiss, remembering how that had felt-

Way too good. The kiss before I had messed up was too _damn_ good. Marco just went for it, heavy and pushing hard, lips searching, teasing at my control. I’d gone in, tasted his lips and their holiday sea salt spray, and I’d felt the way his breath danced over our connection. And then he took over, and he made me weak and vulnerable and so fucking lost in him. I could barely do anything but moan against his mouth, trying not to let myself fall away from the contact… then it had changed. The second kiss was all for me. It said “everything is fine, and I loved it and thank you,” and it was sweet and almost chaste in a way that still got my blood rushing in all directions. I couldn’t tell which one I wanted more of.

“You’re blushing.” A laughing scream from the fleshy Morph. The wheel spun away from my passenger, car leaning into incoming traffic before I pulled it back as he continued to shout. “Oh holy shit, you really did fuck didn’t you?!”

“No, oh my shitting God Con. No.” I scowled, for the first time taking my eyes fully from the road to stare hard at him. “And that’s a disgusting way to put it- it sounds so crude.”

“But you did something?”

My lips rubbed together in contemplation. “We kissed.”

\--

Let me just tell you that I have never heard a noise more terrifying than the one that came out of Connie’s flappy gob at that moment. The Kraken having a steamy, vigorously energetic sex session with Cthulhu, a Kaiju and Godzilla on a squeaky mattress in the Shrieking Shack would have honestly sounded more pleasant than the guttural, swine squeal that denatured every enzyme in my body and somehow, I think, managed to cause both of my ears to burst loudly, hammer and stirrup bones deciding the break and clatter against the drum.

How such a noise came from that man, I will never know. One theory I have devised is that he’s been possessed by a noisy, soul consuming demon that can scream in a newly found wavelength previously unheard of by a human ear. The other is that he uses it as a Sasha mating call. Both are reasonable assumptions.

\--

My words were quiet, drowned out by Connie’s death scream.

“If you tell anyone else, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Too late. Already his phone is in hand, excitedly squealing around the taps of the keys, probably texting Sasha.

 _I’ll have to send Marco a message and apologise_ , I thought. Not only was my day already a complete shambles, now his would be filled with the cries of an unreasonable yet omnipresent Sasha, which confirms that nothing will get done. How incredibly terrible of me to allow such a thing occur to the poor, perfectly freckled man.  _And how can I get my revenge on baldie?_

Dropping Connie off and forcing him to walk seemed too tempting. Even if the City Hall was barely minutes away, I wanted to see him clutch is precious and expensive camera at his chest as he walked along the icy pavements- all courtesy of my revenge. Perhaps he would trip, camera clattering to the ground and the lens fracturing into particles that matched the breaking ice. I could only hope for such wonderfully twisted things; today I was not in a mood to play nice.

Sadly, neither was anyone else.  Parking in Trost has always been a bit of a nightmare, but today was different. It was like the universe knew that I was having a rough day and said to itself “hey, you know what Jean needs? Trouble finding a parking space. ‘Cause that’s some rational karma right there that, for some obscure reason, I’m sure that he deserves.” It took ten minutes circuiting the multi-storey before I found a spot, car barely fitting in between the two terribly parked Land Rovers that were just too clean to actually be anything other than rich-boy city-toys.

I pulled up the hand break, shifted into neutral and turned off the engine, sighing with sheer relief. Connie was already clambering to get out of the old banger, squeezing out of the tiny gap between the door and the other car.

His muffled voice came from somewhere behind me. “Open the boot will ya. I need to get my camera stuff out.” I complied, pulling out the keys and pressing the worn down button with my thumb and roughly shoving the door open, half wishing that the flaky, painted metal hit the other car and left a nice big dent- it’s not like the old gal couldn’t take the beating.

I locked the car, the boot still open as Connie put several cases over his shoulder, and one hanging around his neck. He held one bag out to me, eyes filled with the pain of holding all his shit at once.

“Take this one, Jean.”

And then I begrudgingly remembered that I had my own bag to take care of, and I opened the car again and pulled it out. “I’ve got my own crap to carry.” I groaned dramatically at the barely existent weight of the black bag as I swung it onto my back, hands free to once again lock the car.

“But Jean that’s-“

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have brought so much. You’re only here to take a few pictures.”

“You’re a dick.”

“And you’re a pussy.” Connie just scoffed. I started walking towards the exit, leaving the bald turd to mess around with his stuff, waiting for the eventual slam of the boot as he huffed along behind me.

**

**From Marco: did you tell Connie about the kiss?!?!**

**To Marco: HE FORCED IT OUT! I’m really sorry.**

**From Marco: I had to bribe potato girl with food. You owe me.**

**To Marco: Fine. Drinks after work?**

**From Marco: Deal :)**

Someone across the hall shushed loudly as the squeaking of a TV crew setting up a camera. Only hell knew why they had shushed- perhaps that person was just as bored as I was.

For some reason, I’d actually ended up being incredibly early and had even managed to snag a seat close to the stage at the front of the conference room. That meant that my voice recorder could be used, and I didn’t have to take notes.

Whoop-de-do.

So now I was left with no note taking unless I wanted to. I still kept the pad with me anyway, doodling uselessly along the margin with my inch-long pencil.

 _God that really sounded like a euphemism._ _Inch-long pen...is… haha oh God that's so bad. I can't think of dick here. Well I can, but I shouldn't. But I can. I can think of whatever dick I want to because fuck you world. My dick, Marco's dick- oh fuck._

_Wow, brain. You sure this is a good place to think of that?_

_Yes._

I blinked, looking down at the paper I had doodled on to see that I’d just drawn a massive cock on the side of the page. Internally cursing my dirty mind, I ripped the page out and shoved it in my bag.

_But seriously, I bet his is big. And it probably has freckles on it too._

Today was certainly not a good day. I left the notepad and pencil on my lap, reaching down again to remove the voice recorder from my bag and chucked that with the notepad. Bag still in hand, I contemplated getting out my phone and gave into myself, flicking the screen on to see five new messages.

**From Human Dustbin: giggedy giggedy giggedy giggedy giggedy :3**

**From Human Dustbin: I dnt believe u jst kissed. U so jiggled th wiggle**

**From Human Dustbin: I bet u bottomed. Ud so be the 1 2 bottom ;D**

**From Marco: Get her to stop. Please?**

**From Human Dustbin: aw ur bf just fed me. I <3 him mor dan u, bottom boi ;)**

There was a shift in the seats, and I looked right to see a man sitting right next to me, large body squeezing uncomfortably into the seat. My eyes scanned the room. The place was still near empty, the whole front row completely free other than for me. And the man chose to sit right there?

Seriously?!

**To Marco: I’ll try. You did feed her, right?**

**To Human Dustbin: he’s not my boyfriend… yet.  And if you stop bullying him I’ll get you a second lunch when we get back.**

**To Human Dustbin: Also Jean Kirschtein doesn’t bottom.**

A woman walked past holding a microphone, fitting it in front of the podium. A large arm was taking up the majority of the arm rest, and I looked to the big man who was staring directly back. My phone buzzed.

**From Human Dustbin: BUT UR  NOT HEEREE. I WANT FOOD NOWWW… :’(**

**To Human Dustbin: FINE! There's chocolate in the bottom drawer of my desk. Take it and shut up.**

Another buzz.

**From Marco: I’ve fed her two lunches. She’s had two jacket potatoes and a slice of cake. How does one person eat that much?**

I laughed slightly. If only Marco knew. That was nothing. Give her an alcoholic drink and suddenly she turns into a bottomless pit. More than once we’d been out to dinner as a group, only to have Sasha steal everyone else’s food as well as eat her own. That night she’d paid for everything as punishment.

Suddenly, I felt as though I was being watched. My head spun, catching the man next to me looking at my phone as his prying eyes shifted to the stage. He’d been looking at my conversations.

This guy was gonna piss me off.

The room was getting busier, chairs filling up and a few more microphones being set up by TV crews as the front of the room, some getting priority on the podium itself. The buzz was starting to get louder, chairs filling up around me. The annoying man was loudly unwrapping a bar of chocolate, biting down hard and crunching it unpleasantly.

**To Marco: I don’t know. It’s one of life’s great mysteries. Like how does a person manage to eat chocolate loudly?**

**From Human Dustbin: BUT ITS FRUIT N NUT. IT HAS FRUIT N IT I CNT EAT DAT.**

**From Human Dustbin: Im jus takin th biscuits n doritos nsted.**

**To Human Dustbin: NO. Sasha they’re my favourite biscuits… there's nowhere in Trost that sells them :(**

Could the day get worse?

Yes. The man had now decided to tuck into a bag of chips, pulling them out with greasy fingers as the plastic rustled and he shoved a handful in his mouth at once, bits falling onto his shirt that he subsequently picked off and threw in his mouth that hung open as he ate. It gave a _lovely_ view of the inside of his mouth and the potato-ey mess. Disgusting.

“Five minutes.” A voice called from the stage, room silencing.

**From Marco: That is one of the strangest questions I’ve ever been asked. But I would say the wrapper has a big part to play in the answer.**

**To Marco: if that was one of the strangest you’ve encountered, then obviously I’ve been asking the wrong questions. And shouldn’t you be doing work mister?**

“Hrrmmmphng." The dumb noise spread wet crumbs before the portly man, cheeks chewing the cud as he pulled a tiny laptop onto the bulge of his paunch, unlimited chins forming below his mouth as his dumb grin opened and closed as he ate. There are some people that are just created specifically to piss you off- that man was one of those people.

“Two minutes. Can you turn your phones off so that they don’t mess with the speakers and mics.”

Like hell anyone actually did that. My phone was on silent anyway, so it wasn’t like it would matter. I picked up my bag, opening it up so that I could text from within its dark depths, hidden from the prying eyes of the man with the rotund figure and others now crowding around the front and fiddling with a pair of speakers.

**From Human Dustbin: ive etn dem nw…. U stil offerin lunch ;3**

“One minute.”

The cameras at the back of the room all clicked on, the sounds of camera operators adjusting the focus, calling to their sound crews to check that they were ready  for recording, a few test photo shutters clicking at the raised platform, taking useless photos of the podium, table either side with two chairs behind each blinded by light before returning to normal.

**To Human Dustbin: NO FUCKING WAY. YOU ATE MY BISCUITS, THAT’S ENOUGH BRIBERY TO LAST THE REST OF THE MILLENNIUM. NOW STOP BUGGING ME AND MARCO AND DO SOME FUCKING WORK.**

My words were angry, but my face was blank.

A group of men walked out onto the stage, three out of the four wearing police uniforms, the other in a sharp, dark suit that somehow managed to make his thick beard and beer belly look almost professional. I picked up the voice recorder, flicking on the round, red button, and cameras clapping furiously at the back of the room, Connie’s being one of them.

The phone buzzed just as a man walked onto the stage, checking the microphones that ran along the podium.

**From Human Dustbin: jeesuusss grouchypants i no ur asshole is sore but dnt tak it out on me.**

**To Human Dustbin: I really hate you sometimes.**

Two muffled taps on a microphone. I looked up.

Keith Shadis stood at the podium, his sunken eyes hiding formidably behind the flap of his cap, unblinking, as cold as ever. This was the head of the Police, the big dog in the system. If he was out, prancing his bossy ass on stage, it was serious. Not that I had ever doubted it wasn’t. Four was a big turnout for a conference, and this could go on for a while.

“At ten forty-six on Wednesday the 13th of November, six human fingers were recovered from the Daily Recon newspaper on 104th street, Trost,” he started, keeping a dark eye on the crowd of reporters, the public, the news crews. “From DNA sampling we have confirmed that they are, in fact, human fingers, although there are no matches within our database. We have also learnt that these fingers are at least three years old and from a female. We would like to urge anyone who may have information or know of any suspicious disappearances around that time to come forward.”

He stood for a few moments, cameras once again clicking before he stood down, another officer coming up to the stand.

“Thank you.” The man coughed, papers on the platform rustling as he looked down to them, eyes flicking between the sheets and the back of the room, unsure whether to look at the cameras or not. “The uh, public statement given out by the police on the 23rd of November confirmed the presence of OxyContin and ketamine, however over recent days we have also discovered the presence of several plant extracts including _Atropa belladonna, Kalmia latifolia_ and _Ligustrum,_ resulting in the occurrence of high levels of lethal tropane alkaloids, hyoscine, andromedotoxin, arbutin and syringin. These produce symptoms such as hallucinations, delirium, depression, lack of co-ordination, digestive disturbances, nervous symptoms, convulsions, comas and eventual death, if not treated quickly.

We can also now confirm that not only was a black tar found on site, but also three pounds of capsules containing a dried and more concentrated form of the drug. It is unknown whether it has yet to be sold on to customers, however we are keeping a close eye on those coming in for drug related offences and increasing street patrols and making sure doctors know of the symptoms and of the risks. May I also take the time to remind you not to buy or accept drugs from anywhere other than from a registered chemist, especially now when the risk is so high.”

The large man to my right coughed wetly, and somehow his gut managed to creep onto the arm rests, slightly damp shirt touching my arm.

I shuddered at the unwanted stranger contact.

“Can Doctor Darius Zackly please take the stand?” The man at the podium asked, turning around to step down with a sharp look of relief, the older man groaning as he stood up to replace the officer, suit crumpled against his stomach.  His footsteps were heavy, a few shots of bright flash making his lined face look even more wrinkled.

“Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, the fingers found, as previously suggested are that of a female.” He paused, taking a deep breath to correct the slight croak of his voice, “and we can also tell that they belong to someone of Caucasian descent, between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five. Of course, the spread seems rather wide, however-“

**_VRD-DM VRD-DM VRD-DM VRD-DM  VRD-DM VRRRRRRRRR VRM VRM VRMMMMMM_ **

Speakers bounced as it pounded with the mechanical noise, the room vibrating and everyone's head dipped low to counteract the pulsating noise. The phone in my bag vibrated barely seconds after the noise that had half of the hall clasping their hands over their ears, subdued shouts and profanities that are incredibly unwelcome on the news-

_Is this running live?_

I unlocked my phone, the man next to me tutting childishly. I gave him a sharp look to return his own, Zackly taking a moment to recover before returning to his speech.

**From Marco: I’m at lunch. You’re working, so that means someone is being a hypocrite, huh, MISTER?**

“-only been a handful of disappearances in the past few years within the city and all will be-“

**To Marco: I’m being incredibly hypocritical. However I’m not in an office, so no one will check on me.**

And send.

“-search perimeter will be widened if necessary, and ca-“

**_D D MM D D DMM DRMMMMM DRMMM D D D MMMMMMRRRRRR_ **

“WHOSE FUCKING PHONE IS THAT?”

The room looked around, searching for the culprit. The bulk of a man sitting next to me had his eyes planted on my bag. People continued to follow his gaze, landing on me as a result.

And then I realised. That was my phone causing the disturbances.

The lump of lard to my right shook his head at me, globular eyes ashamed, insincere as he shoved some indistinguishable food into his sloppy mouth.

I just sighed internally, turning off my phone and shoving it back into the bag which I dropped onto the floor. The voice recorder still sat on my lap and I picked it up, shooting one burning glare back to the man who, _I swear,_ made more noise on purpose than I had ever done by accident.

Today wasn’t a good day.

**

“So it was you, huh?” Connie had just laughed for ten minutes straight, and I had been especially diligent to make sure I turned and braked way too quickly. Hopefully, I could knock his brain back into a somewhat normal phase of consciousness, or out of his ear. Whatever option happened, it was better than how annoying he was then. He'd just spent the whole time pointing out how stupid I'd been. _It's not like I don't already know that, asshat._

“It’s you’re shitty girlfriends fault. She was making Marco uncomfortable, and-“ I risked the road to glance at him “he bought her so much food. You seriously owe him dude. And the greedy eejit stole my biscuits, so she owes me too.”

The bald man just pouted. “Poor baby. Can’t live without the biccies, huh?”

And then he laughed again. It was the same stupid laugh as yesterday, nervous edge, loud, bouncing. For some reason that I couldn’t totally comprehend, it pissed me off. Maybe it was because I really fucking like those biscuits. Or maybe it was the memory of that laugh feeling so wrong, and how bad Marco had looked at those words, at Connie’s stupid and- I know not intentional- confirmation that it was okay to say things like that. My jaw was clenching, teeth grating as the thought of how Marco had just shook as I held him, and how Connie had just reminded me of it again.

“Get out.” the indicator was slammed on, turning my head to look over to the mirror to switch lanes, pulling up against the nearest pavement. I didn’t look at the man and I gritted my teeth against my words, taping them shut with memory. “I said get out Connie.”

The door opened without a word, a rush of cold air mingling with the heated space. I couldn’t bring myself to look, to remember how awful I had felt for Marco, to see him collapse, to crumple in on himself and not get up, to see him cry and shiver and whimper with whatever he was remembering.

I couldn’t bring myself to remember his pain.

The laughing was gone. My joking was done, and so was his. Connie stood on the kerb, camera over his shoulder as my foot hovered over the biting point of the clutch, other hard on the gas as I pressed and took off into the traffic, leaving The Last Airbender to ride out the winter wind.

**

“I-it’s-s ear-r-r-rlier t-t-t-ha-an l-last w-week.” Marco was checking through my work, thankfully arriving at five rather than barely on the deadline. He was smiling slightly and he was trying to hide it, turning towards the screen and furrowing his brow in a half-assed attempt to look serious.

“What are you smiling about, huh?”

And then he was blushing.

Cute. As. Fuck.

He saved the work, minimised the page and flicked to his email. He scrolled and I leant towards the screen, towards Marco. Perhaps I was using it as an excuse to breathe him in, take in the warmth that seemed to have shifted since yesterday. The summer seemed to have faded, replaced with a faint peppery steam and his sweet orange hint. It was still freaking nice.

Finally he clicked, the name Eren Jaeger flashing at the top. Without warning I gawffed. Neither of us expected it, especially Marco who was slightly shocked at how close I’d manage to encroach before he noticed. Still he didn't stretch the gap between us, and I let my eyes scan the page.

 

**Hey Marco.**

**Look, if it was wasn’t Erwin’s idea to send you a formal written apology, I’d come up and say sorry in person 'cause it's kinda pathetic to do it like this. But he said you might be able to sue or some shit like that, so he said stay away until we sorted it out on email or whatever.**

**So sorry Marco. I shouldn’t have said that and I’m sorry I did. It was really fucking stupid and Armin’s pissed off with me right now. That man’s scary when he’s angry, so I’m getting hell from him, and from Mikasa.**

**Give a guy a break, dude.**

“I-I d-d-don-n’t kn-nno-ow whh-at to s-ss-say b-ba-ack.”

I smiled, looking down to Marco who looked back. His eyes started out with a look of concerned, endless black eyes wide, their irises softening their deep gaze. And then they shifted. They scanned my face and it’s smug grin, and- I’m sure- the evil glint that took over whenever I thought of terrorising Eren. Now he was stern, telling me off without words.

“No, Jean.” And with words.

“Yes, Marco.” I shuffled myself forcefully onto his lap, and he gasped (a fucking hot as balls sound), not expecting the contact, and the whole chair shifting under the extra weight of my fat ass. “Look, I’ve known the cretin for years. I know how to deal with his crap.”

I took over, trying hard to make sure I wrote like Marco who seemed to write a hell of a lot better than I do.

 

**To Eren,**

**Thank you for the formal apology.**

**However it is just that- formal, and for company policy alone. It does not change the fact that you were the one who made me cry in front of the entirety of the third floor and I feel no sympathy, regardless of the fact that your boyfriend and girlfriend are rightly annoyed at your behaviour towards me.**

**Therefore, I think it reasonable to receive some sort of compensation for your actions. If you are still in the building, please come to see me A.S.A.P.**

I sent it without Marco’s approval and he slapped my back in protest. And then he shuffled himself, trying to reach around my body to get to the keyboard and I blocked him with my arms.

My voice was teasing, lowered and slow. “You’re not seeing what I wrote. It’s a surprise.”

“F-fff-in-ne.” and Marco stopped shuffling to get away.

Instead he did something much more affective.

Hands slid from the centre of my back, and Marco rubbed his firm fingers across my waist, hitting a ticklish nerve on the way and I arched, head tilting back as I laughed. But he didn’t stop. They continued, wrapping around my waist and tugging me into him, and my back hit his chest, a dull thunk resonating through our shirts along with his sigh, low and soft against my back. I let him see the email, his head peeping over my shoulder as he read what I'd written, nodding in silent approval.

Another email from Eren popped up.

**Yeah, I’m still around. I’ll be up in ten minutes.**

I relaxed back into Marco’s arms, and he sighed, his voice vibrating through his chest and murmuring into my back as he groaned a “mmmmph,” and I felt my body heat up against him, his cheek lying on my back, my fingers playing with his fingers. I raised them up and away from my stomach before letting them drop. Every few forced taps against my skin he would move. He’d shift slightly- his legs would move beneath mine, his nose get slightly firmer against my spine, stomach press closer to the small of my back. It was sweet, and I felt hot inside. Everything he did, every little movement made by heart beat that tiny bit faster, made my breathing just that tiny bit deeper. I wasn’t breathing properly when I wasn't close to him- that’s what my body told me. 

“He said he’d be ten minutes.” I sighed, releasing the air that seemed to build in my lungs. Eventually I said the words. I’d probably been sitting around for that long and just let myself enjoy being close, being held in the not-so-secluded office, shielded by the walls that hid his desk. “Actually, it’s probably less now. I’d better stand up.”

“Noo,” Marco's voice was low, grouchily complaining as I pried his fingers away again and this time he relented my access to the world, sighing as I stood up and I looked over the tops of the tiny segregations. I only saw Hanji and a few others finishing off last little bits. At least it was rather quiet.

And then I saw a wild Eren approaching, marking his recognition of my presence with a “tch” and a blank look.

“Good to see you too, Eren.”

“I fucking knew that the email wasn’t from Marco. He doesn’t play underhand like you do.” He walked, coming to stand and lean against the tiny wall. “So, what’s the deal then.”

“First, apologise to Marco.”

That wasn’t hard. He apologised, although he did look like he had just ripped his own dick off in pure frustration (he isn’t one to say sorry for his actions unless not doing so affected him personally), and Marco smiled slightly and warmly. Eren was forgiven.

“You made it sound like there was something else,” he asked. It was questioning, probing and justified.

_Damn I’m a terrible person._

Marco was looking at me, wordlessly questioning what else Eren needed to do. “I want you to call your wonderful partners and get their asses down to the Three Walls by seven. And you’ve got first, second and third round.”

“Deal, asshole.” Eren’s grin could be seen from space, half expecting my request to be a lot less innocuous. He nodded, excusing himself as strode out, plucking his phone from his pocked with one hand, and giving a funny backwards wave as he walked away.

I stifled the giggle until he left.

“W-w-wwh-hha-at’s s-so f-funny?” Marco asked.

“We’re not going to The Walls. But Connie and Sasha are and their idea of rounds of drinks is food. Eren’s gonna pay for all of their food- three rounds for both of them and Armin and Mikasa. That means he’s gonna end up forking out around a hundred big ones for everyone.” I leant against the desk, Marco still sitting down on his chair. He looked… hurt. “Hey, are you okay?” I asked.

“’m ffine.”

I could tell that he wasn’t. So instead I explained myself, worried that I'd done something wrong. “Normally  I go there on a Friday with the others. And I was gonna take you there, let Eren pay for your drinks. But I don’t want Eren paying for my man’s stuff- that’s my job. So I found somewhere better that I used to go to. Plus I was really shitty to Connie earlier, and I needed some way to apologise. And I promised Sash lunch.”

“… y-yyou’r-re… man?” and then his face had changed. A sweet blush, tipping the tops of his ears, highlighting the freckles on his cheeks, and a smile that was breaking through the lip he was biting.

And I was blushing too, struggling to put a coherent sentence together between glimpses of his smile. “Uh, yeah I mean- um, er well I’m taking you out, aren’t I?”

Marco laughed, and I swear to every deity under our sweet sun that I have never felt prouder to be the one to start it. I prayed that I could do it again, and I wanted it to last. The way his eyes closed and his lashes fell over the tiny laughter lines, the gentle slope of his lips that stretched his cupid’s bow, taught and ready to strike. It aimed and fired and hit.

And I was smiling too.

He slowed, deeply breathing through the fierce tint of his cheeks, and he turned to the computer, fingers dancing along the keyboard.

**You’re such a dork.**

 I looked to the computer screen, reading the words before looking to Marco, “And you still need to finish editing my work, or else I won’t be able to treat _my man_ to anything.” I stressed the words, watching as his head dipped with another burst of a smile and another flurry of fingers.

**I don’t know… I think I need a bit of inspiration.**

He looked to me, and I looked back, the starless eyes heavy, his constellations lying on his skin, the sun’s playground- even in winter.

“Whatever my man needs.” I say, and I kissed him, keeping the sounds of our lips meeting and moving as quiet as I could, letting Marco drag me closer, pulling me down to him, hands against my waist and I reached to hold his face in my palms. I let my fingers trace his freckles, thumb rubbing against his blushing cheeks, curling into the soft ebony hair beside his ears and I breathed in his faint clementine and fading summer and tasting the heat on his tongue, For the first time, today wasn’t a bad day.

Today was a good day, and it was only going to get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This chapter took so long, and I kinda hate it.
> 
> But never mind! I'm super looking forward to writing ch9!!! :3 
> 
> Thank you for the hits and kudos', too! In one chapter everything kinda went BOOM and I was getting lovely comments and now I'm feeling both self-righteous and undeserving. 
> 
> And I included a couple of words I wasn't sure if people would recognise, since it's rather colloquial for where I live and I'm not sure how far the internet has spread them; eejit and cretin.  
> Eejit means idiot.  
> Cretin (said kret-in) pretty much means insensitive dumbass but in a cutesie little word.
> 
> Once again, thank you all for the hits, and wonderfully kind comments and kudos. I really appreciate it.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	9. Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Marco does something naughty, there's a date, some lovely fluff, and time for reflection.
> 
> Once again, my bad musical taste has been included:
> 
>  
> 
> [Dry The River- New Ceremony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCJ22QQTWtM)  
> [Bastille- Icarus (acoustic)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVgeTLWcpxs)  
> [TDCC-Sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKyK1Mme9Sc)  
> [Bon Iver- Towers)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gv3Gtf94o6w)  
> [Transistors OST- In Circles (hummed)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTfReGPtxNo)  
> [Hudson Taylor- Battles)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbNkce8c78A)  
> [Jamie N Commons- The Preacher](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orivEatc2fw)  
> [Jamie N Commons- Lead Me Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K53Lf5Jkbjs)

I’ve never been one to drink. It just never quite appealed to me to become so incoherent, so cut off from my own body that I couldn’t stand straight or say anything without slurring.

Of course I have drunk before, but I’ve never gotten the point where I was paralytic, or even past the point where I got a mild buzz from the sharp liquid. I tried not to- I’d learnt early on that it made my speech worse and that it only took a couple of cheap beers to make my voice just cut out completely, and I’d be left to write down what I wanted to say onto a napkin or a random scrap of paper. At that point people tended to ignore me. Intoxicated people aren’t so caring and they tend to not realise when they’re being rude or hurtful. I never blame them for it.

Jean didn’t ignore me though. We had walked for quite some time in a direction I’d never gone before, away from the bars and shops and city life that overtook this town on the nights where people felt free to let themselves loose. This was an area of a low buzz; cobble streets that cars could barely fit down, shop owners sitting at the entrances to their shops with burning cigarettes and mugs of curling-hot beverages in hand as they waited for customers. They lined the road and their shop’s entrances spoke for them. It was bright; colourful and useless items that were merely only of a tourists interest curtaining the windows and thinning the path so far down that I had to walk behind Jean, who gripped my wrist with tight fingers to keep me from straying too far in the onslaught of people and objects filling this alien part of Trost.

And when we finally reached the plaza, we stopped. I looked. I breathed.

The coloured stones spiralled into the centre, fountain dripping with crystal-stalactite icicles at every tier and a circle of subtly murmuring, open-fronted bars with no names surrounding the iced tower, bathed in the faint light of a few simple, flickering, early Christmas decorations that hung from lamp posts and a few sparsely leafed trees with peeling, pale bark to reveal frost bitten flesh.

 He had found a perfect haven in a strange city- so foreign in an unfamiliar place, yet I knew it. I knew its atmosphere, and it was his. It reflected the anticipation that surrounded him, filled with the promising hours and conversations and laughter that we would share.

I had barely noticed as Jean’s hand slipped from my wrist and ghosted into my palm. All I noticed was that he took me wordlessly into a restfully lit bar and we spent the evening together, talking casually and enjoying the feel of the place and of each other- even if my voice ran away from me after a while and I was left to sit and write my half of the conversation. I just enjoyed the way Jean rambled on about anything he came up with to talk about, partially drink fuelled, the other with the excitement I could see forming a shining golden crescent in his eyes.

He barely spoke of anything about himself and yet I learned so much about his character; the way his eyelids lifted earnestly as he looked up, how he would accentuate words with his hands, only to think that they’re moving too wildly and then proceed to tug them back into his sides and keep them there for a little while, the way he bit his bottom lip between his front teeth before he smiled, then the grin stretching too wide and the reddened lip proceeding to flick from their grasp.

They were all little things, but to me they spoke volumes about who he was. He doubted his strength, and he talked himself into confidence. Jean used sarcasm and humour to cover the cracks, and when it failed he fell. But a burning passion somewhere inside of him didn't let him give up, and he didn’t stop until he became the version of himself he aspired to be. Jean was personable, willing, and no matter what was done or said by him or to him, he understood the purpose of those words and actions and how they made that person feel, because he felt it for himself. He was strong.

We didn’t kiss that evening, and I felt both a searing disappointment and understanding. It wasn’t a date; it was time to get to know one another. It was the bit we missed out on before we rushed into our first kiss, the first time we spent the sleeping in each other’s arms-of course platonically. Jean didn’t care if nothing came of that evening because nothing was supposed to. We were learning about each other in a way that made me think that he wanted us- me and him- to be more than casual...

 

I contemplated all of this in the morning after as I lay in bed, the morning light barely seeping in through the curtains. Saturday was going to be different. It was planned, the chance to carry on what we had started.

It was also our first official date.

Honestly, I was probably over-thinking everything; I got up fifteen minutes before my alarm and ploughed through my wardrobe in a valiant search for something nice to wear, resulting in the choice between two completely opposing outfits, both of which seemed too over-thought and strange for work or for afterwards.

I left them both lying on the bed, unwilling to make a decision, automatically changing into a pair of jogging bottoms and a shirt that was so stretched from washes that the once short sleeves now hung by my elbows, and systematically throwing on a pair of running shoes, heading out in the cool drizzle of late November and running around the usual course of roads and parks in an attempt to ease the butterflies in my stomach.

People tend not to believe that I exercise, although I’m not so sure why. Perhaps it’s the fact that my face seems to have retained most of the baby fat from my youth, or that I’m in a job that requires more mental vigour than physical. But I run, mainly because the doctors had said that it might help; increasing lung capacity, training regular breathing and improving diaphragm control, and such other ‘important’ tasks for steady improvement. It did help somewhat, but not enough for it to make much difference. I still liked running though; I wasn’t quick and I couldn’t run for miles, but every time I did, I was glad for it. It made me forget for a little while. Plus nervous energy made excellent leg fuel, and I was completely stoked with tension.

On top of that, any help to make me look less like an innocent, gangly, prepubescent teen was welcome.

By the time I returned to the flat, the light was pouring in through the windows and highlighting the silhouette of Scout, who sat on the back of the sofa, clawing at the fraying material. She barely noticed that I was watching her tear up my furniture, her mocha ears flicking at the sound of her own claws ripping against the fabric. I just left her to it. She was a pretty cat, but old and senile. If I told her off for it, she would forget and do the same thing fifteen minutes later. That was why her walks in the outside world would normally span three days; she’d forget where home is and end up at a neighbour’s house, eating their food and rubbing her caramel fur all over their clothes.

I just dumped some tinned gunk into her bowl before heading into the shower and stripping the slightly sweaty clothes into the laundry basket, letting the water temperature rise from the freezing cold that first ran into the steaming warmth that made the glass pane of the bathroom steam up and drip with condensation.

That’s one of the nicest parts of my day; the light sheen of sweat that coldly coats my skin being washed away by the barrage of burning heat. I let it run down and flatten my hair as I looked up to the shower head, water dripping down my neck and onto my back, easing the knots of muscle throughout my shoulders, releasing the acrid burn of my calves with the numbing massage of drops.

Whilst I relished the hot shower, it gave me unwanted time and my mind began to wander.

 I was thinking about Jean and how to impress him. It was pathetic, sure. But the way he dressed, the way he held himself and how he talked and acted- he impressed me with all that and more, and I aspired to impress him in return. Yet he never made me feel inadequate.

Plus, he was gorgeous- and a flirt without realising it.

The words that seemed to slip from his lips;  _“my man,”_ his protective little endearment that had made him flush with embarrassment at my acknowledgement, and all I could do was smile and return the sweet surprise. I liked that. The direct affection was nice, welcoming and warming. My pulse fluttered at the thought, heating me up as much as the scalding water.

The heat spread, and I encouraged it. I thought harder, remembering his breath, his soft lips that pressed so gently, teasing and satirising control. I couldn’t take that, and I forced my lips harder against his and and he had broken, now giving rise to a pleasing swell that forced my right hand against the wall for support against the slippery floor as I let the other slip down from my stomach to the steadily growing sensitivity of my aching groin.

My fingertips had not yet heated and their pleasant coldness reminded me of him, of the inexplicable quiet of his hands that had been in mine and had held my waist. I imagined them now, playing and stroking with light fingers, shivering in the steam as they heated upon contact, how they would turn my skin into fire when I held him and his familiar warmth, permeating from nowhere and everywhere all at once, consuming any consciousness until all that was left was him.

His atmosphere that held his eyes seemed present and strong. I could imagine them so perfectly, their ochre gaze embracing my own as the imagination of his hands followed the reality of my own- stroking and playing along the shaft, fingers smoothing against the sensitive spot under the head he didn’t know was there, the images I conjured of his hand teasing along the slit, and I let my weak fluid dilute in the water and wash away as I grew harder and he grew stronger.

His breath, his saccharin scent was there, whispering with an untameable quiet and with words I couldn’t hear and my desperate pants joined his. In my mind, Jean held me close and I let myself relish in the false memory, growing in the heat and fictional closeness. Our heats mingles, my breath catching and failing with every rough thrust of my hands and my hips.

The water curved around my bent head, the drips catching in my lips before falling hard and burning with every sensitive patter like sweat- my sweat that came so wonderfully hard compared to when running. This was harsh, and I felt as though the ersatz perspiration could burn with a hot acidity that only made his tantalising memory feel tangible. I curled into it, arching and throwing myself into the thought of his hands and his eyes and his voice over and over before I came, my free hand balling into a fist against as I attempted to keep myself standing against the wave of blinding darkness of euphoria.

Guilt was something I felt in waves. Pleasure was something else. They intertwined horribly, remorse brought up by the vibrations of safe dark and penetrating light. I felt bad because it was him, and I felt bad because it was reasonable.

I _could_ think like that if I wanted to. I _can_ find Jean attractive, and I _can_ think of him in a way that I imagined what he could be to me.

That never meant I should have done what I just had. We worked together, we went out as colleagues and as friends… yet that wasn’t the be-all and end-all of our relationship. It was confusing, but I found myself feeling as though my actions were justified because I liked him, and I wanted to be with him, however selfish that may sound.

So I dressed, going with a different outfit entirely from the other two; a light denim shirt with a white, soft collar layered with a grey waistcoat and deep, thickly knitted green jumper, dark jeans that bordered on grey and a pair of casual boots, before gathering my phone and iPod and the work I’d left on the table, abandoning the idea of breakfast due to the lack of time I had left for me and my self-interest, and writing off the return of the stomach ravaging butterflies as unreasonable nervousness of my expectations for the work I may receive that day.

**

**From Jean: I’ll be 2 minutes, just parking.**

**To Jean: Okay.**

The rain that had been teasing the town with its presence all day had just stopped, dripping from the plastic awning I hid under just outside the pizzeria, the wet tarmac making the smell of cooking meat bitter.

I’d decided not to head in. I’d always had an issue with going into a café or restaurant alone in case I couldn’t order properly, and now wasn’t much different. So instead I waited for Jean outside, rather enjoying the nip of winter air that hit the back of my neck and, I’m sure, made my cheeks red with the virulent cold.

Before too long he turned up, walking through the faint dark in a thick coat that he huddled to his lithe frame, hair flying around in the wind, brushing over his eyes and whipping his face fervently as he spotted me with a bold smile swathed onto his lips. I smiled back, eyes drifting to the floor as Jean approached. For the first time I was unsure of how to greet him.

Jean didn’t seem to have the same problem. As soon as he reached me, his hand slipped into mine, the faint memory of what I’d imagined that morning fading back into my mind, coaxing a sharp exhale and a deeper blush, unable to meet his eyes at first.

“Hey.”

His voice was low and soft, and it drew me up to meet his gaze- and it was _so_ kind. The shift in his eyes, their reflections of the warm light behind me, their fawn sweetness… I couldn’t stop myself from looking, and I couldn’t look away.

“H-hi,” I murmured, grateful for the softening curve of his mouth, smile fainter but still there. His eyes searched mine, taking the time to work their way across my face, looking to my cheeks, and eventually to my lips without a word.

“You look –uh,” short syllables shot from his mouth, unexpected in our mutual silence, but he corrected himself. “I uh, I was going to say nice but you- you uh- you look better than just nice, like hot but that’s sorta dumb so-“

The laugh that escaped my lungs caught him by surprise, eyes widening as I let my giggles loose, a mixture of how hilariously adorable Jean’s flirting was and the fact that _did he just say I was hot?!_

“I’m not kidding. You look really good.”

“Jean,” I said around the giggles, squeezing the fingers that were in mine, letting their cold make my own frozen hands gather a tiny heat in the centre of the clasp. “T-t-thh-hha-n-nks. Y-yo-ou l-llo-ok g-good t-too.”

And then his lips were on mine, a gentle, small exchange- mainly due to the fact that we were both smiling too widely to force our lips to move. So I pulled away, still grinning, watching his eyes drift open and settle on mine, their amber light burning brightly.

“Shall we go in?” he asked, the question playful on his lips. I just nodded and gripped his hand tighter as we walked into the pizzeria together.

Its warm air blew through the door, heated air lock barring the cold from entering.

The restaurant still looked as though someone decorated the place based on the inside of an internal organ, although a few generic pictures had gone up since last time, rough brush-stroke poppies in evergreen fields at regular intervals. The scent of cooking bread and rosemary was strong in the air, disappointingly overpowering the fragrance of Jean that had been left on my skin.

After a moment, the same lady who had seated us last week came to do the same again. She picked up two menus, looking politely from our faces to the link Jean and I had created- I thought I saw her eyebrows squeeze together for just a moment, although I wasn’t completely sure. Still, she walked us to a booth that was tucked away unobtrusively in the corner where it was more private, before we seated ourselves on opposite sides of the table and she took a drink order.

We talked for some time on how the day had gone, Jean complaining that the articles Pixis had given him “ruined the English Breakfast by making it so fucking unhealthy that if you eat one then you’re most likely gonna die in like a day, or something”- apparently eggs yolks were as unhealthy for your heart as a cigarette, a rasher of bacon contained more calories than chocolate and “let’s just not talk about bread, okay?”

Of course, I found it absolutely hilarious. Jean managed to get himself wound up over the strangest things (although I was also loathing the fact that I would have to edit the worrisome breakfast-based article he had written) and ramble on about it until he stopped himself, slowing down to place his order of a meat-fest pizza and to start polite conversation.

“Actually, I was wondering about your family. You mentioned your mother but no one else.” Jean sipped his drink, this evening a non-hangover-inducing diet coke, and resting his head in his hand.

I’d decided on a mixture of writing and speaking tonight, and I jotted down the sentences that would have taken me way too long to say otherwise.

**My mam was the only close family I had. I don’t know my dad or grandparents, and I don’t have any siblings. But we lived with my aunt and uncle and their daughter for a while when I was young.**

“Do you get on with them?”

I shook my head.

**They’re really traditional and religious, so the idea of a kid out of wedlock was a bit out of their comfort zone. They didn’t like me much.**

As Jean read what I’d written, I chugged my drink down to half full.

He smiled slightly as I lowered the glass, eyes somewhat deep in thought, gazing in my direction but not really looking. “I think that’s a shame. You seem like a family person, like, you should have loads of younger brothers and sisters… that kind of person.”

“I-I… I w-ww-o-ould-d h-ha-ave l-l-liked th-h-hat,” I stammered, wondering if I my character was that easy to read.  “Wh-h-h-ha-at ab-b-bout y-you?”

“Just my parents and grandparents. I used to switch houses every other week, ‘cause I was a bit of a problem kid.” He smiled lightly and leant back into the seat. “And my parents got sick of the swearing.”

I stayed silent for a moment, the question I wanted to ask forming, trying an attempt not to be intrusive. “W-w-wh-hat w-wa-as it l-like? The T-o-our-r-rrette’s?”

“Shit. It doesn’t stop, and it’s frustrating. When you’re young, it doesn’t matter. It sucks, but you don’t say anything properly bad. But you learn words and then it gets worse. It pisses everyone off, and you can’t say anything without offending someone.” Jean stopped for a moment, taking another sip of his drink, eyebrows furrowed over the glass. “And you explain yourself over and over, and people want to talk for you, or interrupt or ignore you or think you’re some stupid charity case that needs constant supervision.”

His words resonated with what I knew, what I understood.

It’s complete crap.

“But you find ways to deal with it.” I looked to Jean, whose face had softened slightly, eyes far out in memory. “There were little things made it easier.”

His eyes pulled back from wherever they had gone to, looking directly at me. “W-w-h-hat l-llike?”

The food came then, smiling lady placing the dishes down in front of us and suddenly I was aware of how intense the moment had been. I’d barely blinked and Jean looked away for a few seconds as he thanked the waitress.

“After this, can I take you somewhere? It’s not far, but I’d like to show you it, and-“ he picked up a slice of pizza in his fingers, “after this week I think you need it.”

He took a bite, leaving me to think over what he had meant. Jean breathed a small laugh, probably because I’d managed to scrunch my face up in contemplation as I picked up my fork to dig into the pasta I’d ordered.

**

I had simply refused to let Jean play his music in the car. Dubstep was one of the worst ideas ever created and although he swore that there was some good music in there somewhere, we finally decided to plug the iPod I’d left in my bag into the radio after Jean contemplated the contents.

So instead we listened to Bon Iver, slipping through the darkness of the city as cars drove by, heading to their homes in the suburbs and we headed out to the edges. I hummed along to the tune and Jean kept looking over to me, sighing at my murmuring.

Despite that, I could tell in the leaping streetlight that he was smiling and I kept catching his gaze as it drifted towards me- and I kept doing the same.

The flying shadows caught on his face, cheekbones annoyingly but handsomely prominent, eyes dark and serious but also warm and bright and exited. And then his gaze would flick, and I’d look to the road again, the music swinging gently around the sound of his smile, faint against the music. I smiled too.

“It’s not far,” Jean said, almost to himself and I replied with a nod I wasn’t sure he saw.

We continued out down the main highway, the towering buildings sifting away and the sight of trees sporadically appearing around the crowds of buildings that lay around the road that his car rattled along, the late evening traffic drifting and fading slowly. The road thinned, lights leaving to follow other paths yet we carried on travelling, time fading away with the buildings.

It must have been ten minutes before we pulled away from the main road, turning off at a junction that almost immediately led into a quieter part of the town.

Whenever you see one of those idealistic communities on TV or in films where the kids played on the streets and neighbours waved as they gathered their newspapers from the front steps of the idyllic houses they live, in you can’t help but notice how unrealistic it is. They look the same; multi-coloured pastel homes with lovely new cars in well-kept driveways. It was like a Frankenstein of reality, the best bits stitched together to create a monster of a society, where everyone agrees on everything and have the same habits and ideals and nothing is ever new, and when something is it’s feared and rejected. It reminded me of the town from Edward Scissorhands.

This place seemed like that. The time was heading on to midnight, and all the lights were off, as if no one dared stay up past ten, and everything was pristine and quiet and as boring as all hell.

“I used to live around here. It hasn’t changed. I bet the same people live here too.” Jean’s words were like a whisper, almost inaudible, as though they hadn’t meant to slip past his lips. The car slowed slightly, and he turned to me in the dark. “Y’know, a symptom of GTS is ADHD. A lot of neighbours thought my parents couldn’t control me. They couldn’t, not really, but they tried. I used to get into fights a lot ‘cause I’d call someone a name by accident and they’d hit me, so I’d hit back. It seems so stupid now.”

He almost scoffed at his words, smiling lightly and shaking his head. I was just confused. He’d barely said anything about himself before, and yet now he spoke of himself as though it meant something, like he was getting somewhere. “W-w-why a-a-ar-rre y-you t-telling m-m-me t-this?”

“Because it happened for nineteen years. And because most people don’t listen or care, ‘cause it doesn’t matter anymore. But it does. I wouldn’t be where I am if I was like everyone else, I wouldn’t have gone to college to study English and written a book in my spare time and I wouldn’t have met Eren or Armin or Mikasa or anyone from work… or you. It changed me more than the accident ever did. But that's the part people focus on.”

The car slipped into another lane, this time almost a dirt track that lead away from the houses and into a horizon of trees that made the path so dark that I could barely see past the beam the car projected onto our path. The light hardly reached us, yet I noticed it reflecting on Jean’s face, deep in contemplation, his eyes dipped, lips tight together, eyebrows setting themselves into a low scowl.

There was a purpose to this, a reason he had driven far outside of our normal limits and taken us down the road that made the car bounce with potholes and swollen roots.

And then I saw it; the reason, and it was beautiful. The road ended in a tiny dirt opening, rimmed with a tiny wooden border that broke the continuous flow of earth to water. Surrounded by the trees that also lined the path, there lay a lake that reflected the light from the stars and the moon that occasionally weaved through the city-bleached clouds that tinted the sky with a sickly yellow.

Jean slowed the car, pulling up so that the bonnet of the car sat a few feet from the water’s edge and he got out, leaving the keys in the ignition and walking around to the front and leaning on his car. I got out too, music still playing quietly and sweetly, and made my way to stand next to him.

“I-it’s beaut-tif-f-ful.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. I’m glad they didn’t fill it in.” I leant against the hood as he talked, noticing it’s warmth, quickly cooling against the evening air, and I turned to watch his expression. It shifted as much as the shadows cast by the branches of the trees, as much as the water rippled with wind. Jean’s eyes couldn’t settle, his mouth undecided as to whether it should frown or smile or purse.

“Jean?”

“No, it’s fine. Marco, I’m-“ he turned to me and his hand shot out for mine, taking his fingers and intertwining them with mine, I breathed loudly, shocked by the movement, the heavy closeness he had suddenly managed to created. “I- I… You know what it’s like to not be able to talk properly, and from the moment I realised, I wondered how you cope. Because I didn’t. I never figured out how to deal with it, not really. So how, Marco? How do you cope?”

How do I cope? I’d never asked myself that. I just did. There wasn’t a day where I didn’t fight with my voice or a day where someone could barely wait for my response. I had to, there was no off button or a magic accident that made me speak like everyone else. I just had to cope.

I split our hands, opening the car door to where I had just sat, reaching in to look through my bag, reaching out my notepad and pen and taking it back. The whole time Jean watched; as I had stood and thought in contemplation and now, as I wrote a response.

**I don’t cope. I live with it and hope it gets easier with time.**

Jean nodded, looking back out to the water that reflected a faint circle of white. “Does it get easier?”

“No.”

“Then why just live with it?”

I couldn’t say the answer I wanted, putting it down in words instead.

**Because I’m never going to get better. I’m never not going to have a stutter. But you hope other people will be sympathetic, that people will learn to be kind with increased exposure. Sometimes you deal with people who aren’t, and on those days you’re reminded all over again that people are cruel, life is cruel and you either have to suck it up or cry until it hurts because there's no other way. Whatever hand you’re dealt in life is what you’re stuck with and that’s never going to change unless you’re handed a miracle. You were lucky. But I'm never going to have that. I'm stuck writing what I want to say until I die, or until I give up completely. It's unfair, but I have to get over it.**

I didn’t let Jean see that. I tore it from the pad, folding it and ripping it up into the tiniest pieces I could manage. I let the scraps fly away with the breeze and we watched them fly away together.

“What did you write?”

**I vented.**

“That was quiet. I normally just-“ he took a deep breath before turning to the water and shouting loudly, “FUCK! MOTHER FUCKING COCK SUCKER ASS WHORE CUMSLUT.”

His coarse shouting took me by surprise, all I could say was “woah.”

“Yeah,” he said before laughing, his bright chuckling forcing a smile onto my own lips. “Sorry, that was kind of uncalled for.”

“A b-bit.”

“But it helps. Did writing what you wrote on that paper help too?”

I wasn’t so sure. Putting what I’d wanted to say down into words made it seem even more real. There was no way for me to tell if I preferred that or not.

“I-I’m not s-ss-sure.”

“Do it again. Write everything that pissed you off this week and why and then just throw it.”

Jean was smiling as I gripped the pen tighter and put it to the paper, trying to think of things to write.

 **Eren:** **~~I didn’t like it but~~    ~~you didn’t know~~     ~~I should have taken it better~~    I don’t blame you for hurting me.**

**Sasha: please learn which witch is which.**

I paused for a moment then. Jean was looking away, out into the water. He wasn’t intruding; he was just letting me write.

**Jean: I don’t know why you’re so nice to me and I’m scared that it’s going to end and I’ll have no one who understands me. Also, how do you manage to pull off such a bad haircut? It suits you and I also have no idea how you manage to get your hair to be so soft.**

**Marco: I thought you’d learn to take it better. But you haven’t. Why not? It was one comment in so many, and you failed. All of those times you cried over the same thing and thought you’d be better at handling it next time. But you never were, and I don’t understand it.**

**Marco: this morning was disgusting. You should never have done it. No matter how you feel, it’s wrong to be as selfish as that. I despise you for it now, and I would apologise to him if it wasn’t such a crude thing to do in the first place.**

**Marco: why was it you? Were they right? Is it some punishment from God for being wrong and unwanted? Do you deserve this?**

I tore the paper out, folding it into a small square and proceeded to rip it, aware that Jean’s eyes were on me as I shredded lengthways then bunched the strips up and ripped them again before laying them on my hand and watching as they floated off, some hitting the water and sinking with the damp.

“Would you mind if I said what annoyed me?”

I shook my head and Jean’s smile bounced back up again, and he looked to the water, taking a deep breath before talking, his voice quiet.

“The first thing was that Madame Rose was right and it was creepy as fuck so yeah. And then Eren, ‘cause I know he’s a better man than how he’s acting to Mikky and Armin but he’s not showing it. He’s hurting Mik, but she won’t tell me. So there’s that.” He coughed and brought his hand to his face, scratching the side of his nose. “I want to write about something else than fucking breakfast foods. I told Pixis I had a good idea but he keeps rejecting it even though it makes sense. You can’t leave the gap between interviews too long because then no one's interested, and I know it’ll be good story but he doesn’t want to hear it ‘cause it’s too far out for him- which it is- but you take that risk.”

His voice petered out. We stood in silence for a moment, leaning against the car bonnet that had now almost completely gone cold. I shuffled myself towards his body, letting the comfortable heat close our gap.

“I-is tha-a-at it?”

“No.” and then Jean turned to me, taking his cool hand and putting it in mine. I felt a jolt; he was close, like the first night and the night we had kissed. It sparked with excitement. But he just spoke. “Okay, so this may sound weird but I feel like you blame yourself for what happened on Thursday. Don’t. Eren was being a little shit, and it wasn’t your fault. Also, I know this is gonna sound super creepy but I noticed that there’s a freckle on your bottom lip and it’s actually really –uh…”

“W-what?”

“Can I say hot? Because it’s fucking hot.”

My grip on the notepad tightened, and I felt my cheeks burning with heat. I couldn’t say a word- no, I couldn’t think of what to say. He was blunt but I didn’t care. I preferred blunt.

There was no way I couldn’t look from his eyes. Jean’s face lit up with the small victory of my blush and before I knew it, his hand was on my face, eyes and thumb tracing my lower lip with a sweet coolness. It stopped in the centre, bending my lip under his finger as I breathed.

“It’s right in the middle. It wasn’t there last week.” He looked from my lip to my eyes. “I was always told as a kid that freckles were kisses from angels, although I didn’t know they kissed there.”

And then his thumb fell away and he leant in with his eyes still open, looking into mine as he took my lower lip in his, sucking gently as his eyes burned. A small sigh left my mouth and I couldn’t help but close my eyes to deepen the kiss, opening my lips to wrap them around Jean’s, pushing firmly into the mouth now hinting tomatoes around his usual lemon.

His lips stayed soft, and it only spurred me on, so I took my hand from his and used it to pull him in closer, spinning him around so he stood in front of my, our legs intertwined and my back pressed firmly against the bonnet so that I could reach in. I licked his lower lip, and his mouth opened with a lewd and throaty moan that only encouraged my tongue to explore, running over the top of his lips before pulling away.

Or so I thought. One hand moved to the back of my head to pull me down, not letting us part, the other resting on my hip. The lips that he had kept so soft were now hard and demanding, his whole body pressed into mine, his thigh firm against my crotch which pooled with heat as he kissed harder, taking the control I let slip away as he nibbled my lower lip. Jean’s head tilted and mine followed his and it deepened, getting progressively quicker, and I struggled to take a breath through the furious and sloppy kissing.

The lack of air built up with the aching heat that pooled wherever we made contact. My lungs and lips burnt with every touch, his sweet tongue stroking mine with every  attempt to breathe until I could stand it no longer, and I pulled my head up, both of us panting heavily, Jean laying his head on my chest, warm breath teasing through my clothes, his hair tickling the bottom of my chin.

I leant down to kiss the messy ash blond hair at the same time a small sigh coming from the other man.

“I can understand why they gave you a freckle there.” His voice was soft, croaking.

I let my face bury in his hair, breathing in his freshness. “Y-y-you’re th-thhe on-nly one… w-who’s k-ki-iis-ssed m-me this w-week. It m-must h-hhave been y-y-you.”

There was a second of silence before Jean realised what I said.

And then his head flew up, the adorable flush that coloured the bridge of his nose and faintly brush his cheeks. Jean’s eyes glowed brightly and they gave off a questioning air that made me smile. “Did you just call me an angel?”

“M-mmaybe.”

“Wow Marco.” And then he was laughing again, shaking his head as he spoke. “That’s some class A flirting. I’m practically melting.”

His head fell back down to rest on my chest. I just laughed, feeling how his head bounced lightly against me, his hands deciding to settle around my hips as mine did around his waist and I pressed my cheek onto his head.

We stood like that for some time, both of us unwilling to move. The cold didn’t bother our warmth, the wind never interrupting us. It was quiet and peaceful as we held each other in the dark by the glistening water that reflected the light of the city, every home, every business and shop and club and bars.

Yet both of our homes were dark. Instead we were here, away from the world and the people that resided there. Together we were excluded, yet whole. We fit. We worked. Nothing mattered, not his past of my voice or what others had done or said- or hadn’t done and hadn’t said. Instead our bodies pressed together and we relaxed, unwilling to interrupt the equal existence we had created.

Jean was fire. He had a heated passion that didn’t stop, couldn’t end and burnt continuously. Whatever he did became filled with his emotion and he melted words, tested them- those that fizzled into ash were weak, the rest were strong and precious and that was what he kept and used. It was the same with people. He tested their purity and found the ones he knew were strong enough to handle him, even if they didn’t get along at times. But that was what he needed; a pillar, a wall, friends who could hold him back and not let him burn out of control. His skin covered the mantel of warmth that raged on constantly, forming something new that bubbles hot and raw, imperfect yet hopeful.

If he was fire, then I’m water. I slip. I fall through the cracks and disappear because I can, because I can become unnoticeable. Nothing about who I am screams that I want to be noticed; I don’t. An unspeaking voice is harder to hear, because silence is something so few people understand. Water doesn’t speak, yet it has a language. It silently drifts through an endless and unbreakable cycle, wearing away at the world, smoothing the rocks and creating new paths. But slowly. It’s an unsayable force, and like my job, goes on behind the scenes, working away to soften and perfect what the passionate heat that lies under the surface has made.

How long we were there for I didn’t know. If could have been hours or minutes. All I knew was that I wished I didn’t have to let go, but it was inevitable. I unravelled my arms from his waist and he did the same, pulling his head from my chest and walking around to the driver’s seat.

“Do you want to come back to mine?”

“S-ssure. Y-yyou s-ssaid y-yyou-u’d r-r-r-read you’re b-book t-to me.”

“Oh yeah,” Jean murmured as the door opened and he stepped inside. I moved around to take the other seat. “I forgot about that. Sure, I’ll read some of it if you want.”

The engine was turned on as I slipped the seatbelt over my shoulder, clicking it in before the car moved, reversing backwards to try and turn around.

We receded from that place in silence, leaving everything we had said by the side of that lake.

There lay a place on that shore where I could leave bad thoughts behind, and I tried. I promised to leave everything that had been bad in my past behind, because I had a future. It travelled with me, and it lay at work and in my flat. My future was in the new city I had fought to get to, and I would make it work.

On the edge of the city, floating around that lake on tiny scraps of paper were the things I promised I’d never let myself worry about ever again. The trick Jean had taught me had worked. I felt better and I could see he did too- to say your problems so blatantly and honestly brought great release.

It was too late to thank him for what he had done. Jean had helped and I was grateful for that. Our pasts were abandoned there, and we never returned to look at them.

There, driving away from one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, driving from one of my most cherished memories, I started a new life. We started it together, in silence and contemplation. We had been reborn from words that held us back, and now we were free to move on and live as we wanted to; to write what we thought, to say what pleases us, to love who we want and be friends with whomsoever excites us with their personality.

Nothing held our existence back and for the first time I felt neutral. There was no constant tug of angst or drive to prove people wrong. I couldn’t change. I’d always have a stutter, and it would always bother me when people comment on it or try to help when it wasn’t needed. But I could understand now that it was nothing to be upset over, because the past is the past and there was no way I could afford to reside there anymore. I lived for tomorrow and whatever that may bring, however scary or beautiful it may be.

That last embrace held the past. That last kiss had held everything we wanted in the future. We didn’t want to be stagnant; we wanted to move and explore and push for something exciting. I wanted him, I wanted to know that we could have a future. I wanted to know that it was possible to love him, and I’d found the answer.

Yes. I could. I didn't just  have to learn to love, I could fall into it and be happy knowing that I wouldn’t just land on something harsh that would end up breaking me. I’d fall into flame, heat and warmth and searing passion that rivalled everything I had ever known. Jean conquered the watercolour past I’d been born into. He was bright, and he made everything vibrant; black darker, white purer, red and orange and yellow and green and blue all filled with the power and meaning lacking so much in my own life. He was an immeasurable force that held my hand as he led me onto a future I wanted to believe in.

It involved him. It started with him and ended with us. There was a future I could believe in, because it was happening. The future had started and I’d never felt as though I belonged anywhere half as much as I did in that car, driving back to his flat along the road that was surrounded with the stars of the city, the stars above connecting the earth to the sky so that the whole horizon burned with light. I kissed Jean lightly on the cheek as he drove.

Only then did I understand why they say that the future is bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! This got 1000 hits! I'm amazed, thank you all so much!
> 
> I've been waiting to do this chapter for a while, and now felt like the right time to bust it out. It still took for-freaking-ever though.
> 
> The reason I made Marco do some one handed balloon inflating was because MARCO NEVER SEEMS TO FAP. Seriously it's like he only grows a dick when he's around Jean. Marco is a dude too, he has manly, pork sausage-related needs! Although I tried to do it with as little crudeness as possible.
> 
> Also, thank you to Tyrix who drew me my first piece of fan art! It's awesome, thank you.  
> http://snk-titan.tumblr.com/post/86958891436/some-fan-art-i-drew-for-this-awesome-fan-fic-by Thank you so much for all the support you've given me, you've been a constant uplifting force and I'm incredibly grateful.
> 
> My thanks extend to everyone who has read, commented and Kudos'ed this work. 
> 
> Live long and prosper.  
> Peace out!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	10. Jean- A half chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to say thank you, and to allow me some time.
> 
> (Joe, I included the song for you, buddy. You sung it way better than I did- but then again you learn languages like I learn the names of anime characters. Also, I am never letting Alex give me his shit ever again. It fucked me up so badly.)
> 
> A massive thank you once again to dark_cacahuete for the translations, and the really cute description regarding the difference between 'tu' and 'vous'... like, aw, seriously.

_“He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all for nothing; the years of training to become soldiers, to fight demons stronger and more powerful than any one human, only to realise that all they had done and sacrificed came to naught when their world could do nothing but crumble against the giants. They had been dropped into hell and forced to fight harder than they ever thought they could, harder than they had ever been trained to fight. They had watch comrades die before their eyes, young victims screaming with agony as macabre teeth ripped into their juvenile flesh, their final words the frantic pleas for their mothers, friends, comrades- the ultimate, desperate cry for help before the gods of death consumed them, and they were left to rot in eternal darkness._

_Yet he saw nothing except flame that night as the remains of the children’s - for they were only children- bodies. He had known them for three years, fought with them and promised his loyalty, his life, and his honour in return for their own. So many people had been lost, and yet there was only one name, one face that bothered him._

_No friend’s death should have shaken his soul as much as it had done. But he had never seen him die and that was what unsettled him. He feared the beasts, and he feared what they could do. Yet he feared this more than any of those things combined. The friend that deserved a hero’s farewell, the only child he knew that could have been called anything close of being a man in his eyes, and he hadn’t been there to hold his hand as he passed on. His brave soul burnt with the rest._

_The strongest hearts could still collapse. Even squad leaders could fall. What did that message tell of his own demise, when he knew his heart was weak and his character so poor?_

_His friend deserved way more than this, and if he could rewind time, he would have taken the place of the man he respected more than any other and been the one to lie, disgraced and rotting in the dust of the fallen city instead, to give the one he trusted more than any other another chance to live on and one day belong to a peaceful world and never have to worry about suffering alone as his final breaths tore through his body._

_He looked down to see a small powdered splash of grey and black around the charred slice of bone that lay on the ground. A gloved hand reached for it instinctively holding the remains of the man he wished was still alive._

_“Hey. I don’t know which bones are yours-“_

_“Stop,” Marco said, sniffing and wiping his glistening eyes along the top of his bent knees he had huddled against his chest, “i-it’s t-too sad.”_

_“You were the one that wanted me to read it to you.” I shuffled myself closer so I could poke my elbow into his side. “So you’re the one making yourself sad… technically.”_

_“Jerk.” But Marco didn’t mean it. Even behind the tears and his legs I could see a small smile. It made his cheeks rise and scrunch the corners of his eyes, freckles sprayed over soft cheeks. I grinned back teasingly and rolling my eyes in sarcasm._

_“That’s mean. I’m hurt you’d call me that Marco. I thought we had an understanding here. I read my book and you sit and look pretty whilst I proceed to make you cry.”_

_His head rose then and I noticed the blush that coloured his wet cheeks. “I n-nnever ag-greed to th-h-hat.”_

_“You’ve been here twice and I’ve made you cry both times.  So either it becomes tradition or-“_

_“You c-cried too l-ll-last t-time!”_

_I shut the book hard, throwing it onto the floor and leaning back against the cushions of the couch with a groan. “Well maybe I’ll have to stop showing you things that have funeral pyres in them then. Next time we can watch Pacific Rim or something.”_

_This time his legs stretched out as he put his head on the seat with a worn-out sigh. “I-I’ve s-sseen it too m-much.”_

_“You can never see Pacific Rim too much,” I said, earning a tired groan from Marco who rubbed his eyes on the back of his hand. “And I will never stop thinking Hermann and Newt should just bang.”_

_Marco laughed breathily, and as he did, without even thinking my eyes shifted to the clock on the wall._

_“Shit Marco it’s four.”_

_“What?”_

_“It’s four,” I repeated just in case he hadn’t heard the first time, “ we literally just had a high school sleep over.”_

_“Th-hhere wasn-n-n’t any popc-corn though.”_

_“You want popcorn? Now?”_

_And then I yawned loudly, and Marco followed my lead seconds later._

_“No. I-I w-wwant-” In the semi-darkness, Marco readjusted himself on the couch and suddenly-_

_His legs were over mine, thighs squeezing my own shut as he straddled my lap, his ass hovering over my dick. Before I realised what was happening he leant down and let his head dip in the groove of my neck and his lips played along the skin there slowly. I couldn’t even stifle the moan that rose from my lips._

_-“You.”_

I rose with a jolt, falling off of the couch with a cry of “merde” and a long, wet tongue dragging across my face.

Marco wasn’t there and it took me a moment to realise. That last part hadn’t happened. It went more like-

_“You want popcorn? Now?”_

_And then I yawned loudly, and Marco followed my lead a second later, getting up from the couch and stretching his arms._

_“No. I-I’ll h-hhead b-back h-home.”_

_“You don’t have to,” I said, probably way more enthusiastically than I should have done, “if you want you can take my bed and I’ll sleep here.”_

_“I can’t-“_

_“No it’s fine. Seriously,” I pointed to the door, using a mockingly serious face and tone on Marco, “get your ass in there and sleep.”_

_He was too tired to even argue, sulking off into my room but leaving the door ajar._

Obviously, I wasn’t jerking off enough to stop any embarrassing dreams.

I got up from the floor and rubbed my eyes to check on my man, and all I could see was a mound of dark grey sheets, a tiny blob of almost black hair peeping out from the covers.

There was nothing I could do but let him sleep, even if it was… well late, almost two in the afternoon to be precise. It wasn’t the latest I’d ever slept however I suspected that Mr. Rise-n-Shine might get a bit of a shock at the time.

He also might get a bit of a shock from the fact that I’d obviously decided to strip myself down before sleeping, my only attire now being the tight boxers I wore last night and my shirt which had the top three buttons undone so that my _wonderfully_ pale chest was exposed.

 _Meh. My house, my rules_ I thought. Marco had probably seen more flesh than that before.

_Or perhaps he hasn’t and his head will explode…_

So instead of wondering if my house guest will combust at the sight of my _purposefully alabaster, I swear_ skin, I did my normal morning routine two hours after it was actually morning, turning on the iPod I left continuously sitting in the stereo and walking to the kitchen to turn on the grill to put on as many rashers of bacon as I had left in the fridge.

And then I wondered if Marco actually ate meat. He’d only ever had vegetarian dishes with me.

So that meant I couldn’t just cook bacon and sausages as I normally did. I’d have to have eggs or bread or some other shit like that.

Luckily I had a few of Connie’s equally bald siblings sitting in the fridge, memories of my mother saying _“Jean-bo, eat your omnoms”_ running chills up my spine, already cursing Christmas and family tradition. Bah humbug bitches, I say.

The songs switched as I boiled the kettle, recognising the French lyrics immediately. I loved this song- well, until I played it on repeat for seven straight hours and vowed to never listen to it again. Only now I was once again realising how much I liked this song and how much the lyrics were as sassy as all fuck, plus they sounded super-hot so I wasn’t complaining.

_Vous les hommes êtes tous les memes_

_Macho mais cheap_

_Bande de mauviettes infidèles_

_Si prévisibles, non je ne suis pas certaine, que tu m'mérites_

_Z'avez de la chance qu'on vous aime_

_Dis-moi "Merci"_

And then I couldn’t help myself. I burst out into song on the chorus, letting the guttural ‘r’ roll around my mouth;

_Rendez-vous, rendez-vous, rendez-vous au prochain règlement_

_Rendez-vous, rendez-vous, rendez-vous sûrement aux prochaines règles_

The kettle clicked at the same time as the sound of the bedroom door squeaking open and the stupid dog barking as Marco padded across the flat, groaning loudly before suddenly ending in a squeak, and then a question.

“Were y-y-you s-ssi-inging?”

I smiled, turning around, half to see Marco and his damn fine bed head, and half to grab a frying pan from a cupboard.

 _“Oui, en français. Pourquoi? Tu aimes?”_ I was unsure of whether Marco was now just ignoring my French or if he was just so clueless of my native language that he had no idea what to say. What I was enjoying, however, was the fact that he looked incredibly flustered, his bright eyes unable to settle, and I took that as an opportunity to carry on with the lyrics. I sung them to him, watching the growing embarrassment as I drawled out the lyrics and gave him my  _well it must at least be a bit seductive_ look.

_“Lorsque je ne serai plus belle,_

_Ou du moins au naturel,_

_Arrête je sais que tu mens,_

_Il n'y a que Kate Moss qui est éternelle_

_Moche ou bête, c'est jamais bon!_

_Bête ou belle, c'est jamais bon!_

_Belle ou moi, c'est jamais bon!_

_Moi ou lui, c'est jamais bon!”_

I changed the last line around a bit, putting the pan down as Stromae started to sing, and I could hear a chuckle.

“Stop, p-please.”

“You know you like my French, Marco. Don’t deny it.”

“I d-don’t know wha-at y-you’re s-ssaying,” he said, tone playful as he came to stand inside the kitchen area. He was more dressed than I was; wearing the really warm green cardigan from yesterday, but done up with nothing underneath, and the grey jeans. Honestly, he was doing a lot better this afternoon than I was.

The water was poured into the pan and I swirled it clockwise with a wooden spoon, cracking two miniatures of Connie’s head over the side and pouring their lumpy brains out into the vortex.

“Do you eat meat? ‘Cause I’ve never seen you eat meat and I’ve got too much bacon on for just me to eat,” I thought out loud, half addressing Marco by looking out of the corner of my eye at him.

“I-I do, but I’m-mm n-not a b-big fan.” Marco’s shoulders shrugged under the knitted fabric, it falling over one shoulder and he picked it back up with a flush on his cheeks as he carried on talking. “M-mmeat is j-just meat.”

“Don’t let Sasha hear you say that. She’ll kill you before admitting that meat isn’t awesome.”

At that moment the timer pinged, and I turned the grill off, the deep pink slabs of meat sizzling. Titan stood on my foot, drooling down my calf so I gave in, picking up one of the hot strips in my fingers before waving it around in the air to cool it and then dropping it on the floor, the dog turning into a rabid beast the second the meat touched the ground. The rest of the slices were dragged onto a plate with a fork and set down on the counter.

“D-d-do you n-nneed he-elp?” I nodded, pointing Marco over to the bread bin, finding a half used loaf and some butter that had been left to soften.

“Just put them on the table.”

The eggs were done and I tipped out the water before setting the pan back on the stove to get two plates, putting one egg on each and taking them to the table, setting one plate down on either end.

_At least this time you’re being gentlemanly. Good job, Kirschtein._

“Whe-ere’s t-t-the c-c-cutl-llery?”

I went back into the kitchen, flicking the kettle back on and pulling mugs out from the shelf along with teabags. “There’s a drawer in the table. Hey, _mon ange,”_ I tried it out, the memory of what he had said to me last night playing on my mind slightly. (I figured the endearment suited Marco more than me.) I held out the mugs, _"Tu veux une tasse de thé_ _?”_

Even quickly spoken, it wasn’t hard to figure out, especially with obvious hint in my hand.

“Yes p-please.”

So I put a teabag in one cup and spooning way too much instant coffee into the other, pouring in milk just before the kettle boiled, brimming the two with water and giving my coffee a stir. I remembered that Marco never seemed to take the teabag out of his tea, so I left it in as I took both back to the table, the other man already sitting down at the table, and buttering a slice of bread as I walked in.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” I said around sitting down on the other chair, taking the mug to my lips to take a gulp of the-

Holy fucking crap it was strong.

But I swallowed the coffee down anyway, internally kicking myself for not grabbing the sugar. Instead I took the fork that had been set by the side of my plate, stabbing the bacon and lifting it onto my plate as I asked a curious question. “So, what are you planning to do after this?”

“I h-have to g-go back t-t-to the fl-ll-lat.” He took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly before putting it down on the plate and rubbing his fingers together, crumbs falling onto the table. “Y-you?”

“I’ve got to walk the little shit before he decides to take a crap in the apartment.”

Marco nodded and the room fell into silence- well, bar the music which had once again switched to another Stromae favourite as I stuck too many bits of bacon in my mouth at once and the dog snored. We just ate for a bit.

It was strange. It had been ten days since they had first met and in that time, I had attempted to flirt, we’d been on a kinda date, the creepy TV angel fiasco, a ‘this is strictly as friends’ date, the office incident, a proper date, had two sleepovers; one ending my morning wood as we cuddled on the sofa and the other with a sexy as fuck dream that turned out to be bollocks, kissing in my flat for the first time, Marco doing the walk-of-shame-but-not-really-because-nothing-happened-and-I-drove-him-home, and me dragging us both to the lake so that we could vent our stupid anger, complain about the past, and make out like hormonal teenagers.

We had done a fucking lot. It had been crammed in. Already I felt exhausted by how much had happened, and whilst, yeah the rush felt awesome, I wanted it to slow down a bit, like it was then.

I didn’t want thirteen events in ten days. I wanted moments where we did stupid things like eat breakfast at two thirty in the afternoon as I sat around in my underwear and he wore half of what he did yesterday, my stupid French music played in the background. Slow seemed nice right now. Slow was comfortable, and I could do that. I didn’t want to rush this, whatever it was.

Whatever we were.

“If you want I’ll walk back with you. Two birds, one stone and that crap.”

The cup of tea that was raised to Marco’s lips was framed by the blush that curved along his cheeks, a breathy gulp being taken, followed by a tiny splutter. The mug was lowered, replaced with the warm smile.

“S-sure.”

**

There are a lot of things I can live without. I can live without coffee if I choose to, and I’ve learnt to live without cigarettes, or the need to drink until drunk in the evenings when work is done and I have time to spare. There are things everyone can live without.

I've learnt that there are some things people need. And I know there are things people want. What I needed was air, food, water, a home and a job, the passion to write even if it sucked sometimes, even if I was sick of the world and its bad news. I needed those things.

What I wanted was an entirely different matter, because I want everything.

I want to be able to write like Oscar Wilde. That was never going to happen. I could write like a frustrated kid, or I could pick the lines I chose to write with the greatest care and attention, and allow hours to pander over words that barely meant a thing and would, most likely, be one thousand times less interesting than anything any other writer had to say.

I wanted a helicopter. And a mansion. And I wanted a dog that didn’t smell of shit.

I wanted that pair of DM’s that I couldn’t get in my size in any shop in town.

I wanted to be able to turn into a dragon, and be an astronaut and be able to pick up Mjölnir and be Deadpool and Batman and Doctor Octopus all at once.

There’s a hell of a lot of things I want. But they weren’t things I needed. Wanting was extra.

Seeing that smile was…

Something I wanted and needed, or an odd mixture of neither.

If I could have caused that smile every day, I would have been satisfied. I could survive on sunshine alone.

I could also live in the dark. Sunshine wasn’t something I had ever thrived upon before.

The dilemma was striking. There were two sides to this coin, and I was afraid to find out which face it would land on. Instead I was balancing it on the side, getting neither argument in full view, not making a decision as to what I should pick. I was letting the breeze decide whether heads or tails won. What I hoped would happen should have made a difference, but didn’t. To decide then was hopeless.

After I had changed, we walked to Marco’s apartment in the similar silence that had surrounded us in the flat, and when we reached his home he smiled again, and the winter turned to summer for a few moments as he kissed my cheek and said goodbye.

Then winter started again and I took myself and the dog back to the flat, back to a room with too many books for my eyes only, too much mess for one person alone; not enough noise for two, not enough space for a couple.

I took out one of my favourite books, flipping to the page I kept constantly marked as a source of guidance.

**_We spend a good part of our lives dreaming, especially when we’re awake._ **

Wanting, needing and dreaming are three different things.

I wanted Marco, definitely.

I couldn’t yet tell if I needed him.

I dreamt of him, and I dreamt that I needed him and wanted him. Asleep I saw him, but awake I could see our play falling in front of us, and I could only watch as it took place, enjoying the ride and soon realising that the breeze _is_ influenced by silent wishes. Dreaming became reality if a person wished. Want was human greed. Need is human instinct.

Dreams are the closest thing to prayers any person can ever get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much!  
> I reached 100 kudos, which is an amazing achievement and I'm incredibly grateful.
> 
>  
> 
> Whilst I joke about the insomnia I suffer from, both in my tags and in a couple of my end notes, it has actually been a constant and ever present downward force on my day to day life. In five months I have only ever had one night of full sleep and it is starting to take a toll on my health, both physically and mentally.
> 
> All I ask is that for a short while I receive some forgiveness and understanding for leaving this so that I can undergo the long overdue treatment. Within two weeks I promise I'll have the next full chapter, however until then I apologise. There is nothing I can do other than post this and ask of you what I have done. I will still try to read any comments on here, and I will still be on Tumblr, but until the time comes when I am slightly better, there is nothing I can do.
> 
> I am so sorry, and I promise to return. 
> 
> Farewell for now.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	11. Jean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The life changing moments continue.
> 
> Subtle smut included for your viewing pleasure.

Mondays always seem to hold some sort of new epiphany for me, whether I want it or not. This particular Monday was exceptionally fruitful on the whole ‘life changing moments’ thing. I didn’t really want them, but they still came and I couldn’t do much except roll with it and try to understand what they wanted me to get out of them.

Something I was told frequently, and still am, is that my mouth runs like a train to Hell when I get pissed off. Honesty is always the best policy in my opinion, and when it came to Eren being an asshole or my work or my family, I couldn’t exactly help myself from saying exactly what I thought without any shielding interjection from my moral compass.

From the phone call from my _Mamie_ (or ancient Grandmother who never bothered to learn English, as she’s better known by) at six in the morning asking about coming home for Christmas, to the stupid, deja vu inducing dream I had about leaving the newspaper and spending a year writing the second book around some freelance work, my early morning was filled with options. Everything was another question that played on my mind and left me slightly tenser than before, leaving me to wonder why I even bothered to be honest with others, when I could barely be honest to myself regarding what I wanted.

The dream was interesting though; the faint relief of the freedom I’d gain, coupled with a palpable excitement and fear of the unknown. It was certainly something that subconsciously, at least, I thought I wanted. I’d never exactly had that experience within my career, and I guessed that it was something I felt I missed out on. I’d been herded, lead in a direction not many people were privileged enough to take. From university to now, everything I had been given and everything I’d done was surprisingly safe despite the economy, despite the decline in actual, physical newspaper sales, my job was safe and comfortable and warm. I’d been swaddled in a protective layer that kept my limbs close to my chest and allowed me to do barely anything more than wriggle my fingers and roll my eyes into my skull. Only now did I understand that perhaps I was claustrophobic.

After Saturday, I felt as though I kind of reached some new turning point where I could just abandon everything I had come to be complacent about and put myself out there. It made me realise that I wanted to write what I wanted more often and not have to worry about what the newspaper needed rather than what I wanted. In all honesty, I didn’t care if I never got around to writing the second and third book I had once planned to follow the first. I just wanted to be able to choose what I wrote, and at the newspaper at that time, I’d simply just been told to write exactly what I didn’t want to. It’s like comparing having your legs tied together to having them unbound. In every way, you’d want to have the freedom to walk, right? But I wasn’t getting that. I didn’t have the experience to be able to fold my arms and say “fuck you I’m gonna write this because I fucking can.” I was reliant, despite what I wanted to do, everyone was going to say no even if my intentions were honourable.

Plus, the idea I had was good. Pixis knew about it already; I did the whole spiel, the whole shebang, with plans on what I’d write on a week by week structure around my usual pieces. It worked out fine, and it served a purpose I wasn’t sure Pixis really saw. I got why he didn’t- controversy.

Madame Rose had become something of a hate figure after the news that someone from her church may have been involved in the whole Black’s scandal. Newspapers raced to get the bad side of her business and religion and had completely forgotten that the one running the whole operation was the exact opposite of who everyone else made her out to be. Going against the flow would be tough, and I’d face criticism, hypocrisy, accusations of bias. I don’t honestly care though. I wanted to do it.

So, first thing on Monday morning, I planned to stride into Pixis’ office and demand that he let me write exactly what I wanted to, not accepting another article on my precious bacon, or the constantly depressed stock market that never seemed to get any better and dragged pretty much everything else down with it.

 I supposed that Krista noticed the piercing look I gave as I walked through the new, festively themed lobby, although her doting and ever present girlfriend barely noticed anything other than the petite blonde, and certainly not my foul mood as I waited with a group of not yet caffeinated people standing by the lift.

I had to dig my way out of the overcrowded lift to make my way into the almost empty office, giving a quick nod to Connie at his desk, both him and his area looking worse for wear. I guessed that he’d just pulled an all-night'er.

I’d talk to him later, but right then my mind was set on Pixis and how I’d definitely convince him this morning. His door was ajar, almost as if he expected me to crash through and smack both hands down firmly on his wooden desk and demand his attention and ask for the allowance to let me do what I wanted, only for him to refuse. Then, I’d grab the front of his shirt, already stained with the bitter scent of his Irish coffee, and look in his eye and threaten his manhood until he said okay. That’s the way it’s supposed to go with me- brash and blunt until the bitter end.

It didn’t really happen. The first thing that did happen, however, was that I knocked on the already open door, seeing Pixis ducked behind his desk. The bald man didn’t even notice, so I coughed.

“Oh,” he stood up, wrinkled forehead deepening, “what is it Kirschtein? Here to ask about that article again?”

“Yep. You bet, Sir.” I made my way in, watching the old man get up slowly, the coffee in his left hand suspiciously thin. My voice was annoyingly polite, “I’ve been thinking and-“

“And I’ve already said no. We’re an impartial paper. Our journalists don’t pick sides, even if other newspapers are.”

Pixis sat in his chair, taking a large sip of coffee and leaving me to stand in the doorway like an idiot.

I let the tone of my voice change into something flatter and bitter. “But I’d be interviewing her not making up bullshit about the Three Sisters. It’s not like anyone else has really bothered and the only one I’ve read where she has is incredibly twisted. They ask all of the wrong questions and it’s not fair.”

“I’m not letting one of my people pick a side. That’s not your job.”

The words hit me like a foot to the chest. I felt constricted, patronised and I retaliated with a hint of sarcasm. “I thought my job was to tell the truth, Sir.”

With another sip of his spiked coffee, he smiled, eyes lulling in the way they always did when Pixis quoted someone. He ended up doing that a lot, especially when his unique brand of coffee was involved. “Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.”

“Man is least himself when he talks of his own person,” I retaliate, “give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.”

At that, the bald man chuckled deeply. “What is your mask?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I reply honestly to which Pixis nods.

“I can’t offer you anything. Nothing, at least, that wouldn’t affect your work here.”

A heavy silence lay between us as I mulled over his sentence. There seemed a point to it, and I could vaguely see. Yet, in my head, it sounded really stupid. But I recognised it. being dropped over a pit of darkness. The drop gave rise to an unpleasant well of the stomach, a loss of air from the lungs and eliminating all oxygen, head pounding and blood turning dark with pressure. I felt that then, the drop. That was the drop of deja vu.

“Are you telling me to quit?”

“I’m telling you that I’d pay a freelancer to do exactly what you want to do.”

“So you’re telling me to freelance?” my face slipped back from the probably shocked expression I’d let myself stumble onto to something slightly angrier. “You’re literally just telling me to quit, Pixis, just do I can do exactly what I’m offering to do now anyway.”

“The pay’d be good.”

The exasperated sigh that escaped my lips certainly didn’t go unnoticed- Pixis’ grin extended under his thick, grey moustache as he watched the internal conflict raging in my mind.

In many ways, I needed the freedom writing under my own fruition brought. I’d worked so hard, and without a break for two years, only recently realising that I wanted to do something more creative with my time. Yet the stability the job gave me was just as important and I needed the structure it gave my life, despite it normally ending up a more gruelling task than first expected. Free time is scarce; evenings were normally spent researching for the next article, the next big issue that everyone seemed to simultaneously work on.

The times I had spent with Marco had been a welcome break and all other times with anyone else were few and far between. Free time in university had meant so little- Connie and I used to sit in the dorm room and smoke weed between lectures on poetry and modern literature, and the professor always seemed to like our philosophical answers that had been born from the haze of a high. But now was pretty different. Any time I had was either wasted with sleep or caught up in a book. Time was exceedingly precious now, and in many ways I hated that.

On the other hand, I’d be alone.

The silence hung between us thickly, and I let it. I had to think, and I did, eventually looking harshly at Pixis. My voice had dropped from the quiet I’d placed it under, rough and stern from thought. “I want my job back in a year. But I promise, if you don’t offer the right price, I’ll sell my writing somewhere else.”

Pixis continued on the grin, nodding as he talked. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. D’you think you can have the first part by Saturday?”

That was a stupid question. I didn’t even answer, just turned around and walked out with a small, backwards dismissal. Of course I could fucking get it out by Saturday. Hell, I could whip it out by that same evening. It just pissed me off that he seemed to disregard the planning and preparation I’d already put into this article as obsolete, like I’d need to start all over again. I was halfway there already and I hadn’t even started to put words on a page.

The office was really starting to hot up, phone calls flying and faces darting across the floor in search of contacts and papers. Through the bustle I just made my way to my desk and turned on the computer, allowing the ancient piece of crap to warm up and electronically splutter into life.

As I sat, I checked my phone; no new calls or messages.

Marco hadn’t sent a text this morning which, despite being disappointing, didn’t surprise me much. Mondays were hectic. Also, whilst Marco tended to be supremely easy-going when not working, as soon as it came to his job, the dude really toughened up. Sasha had been reprimanded a few times for one small thing or another by His Freckled Highness and Connie had mentioned early on that Marco had sent many links to a definition of the Oxford comma. ( Their exchange had been incredibly funny. Connie had been writing about the British Royal family’s trip to a nearby district, and the places they’d visited in the idyllic towns residing there. Marco’s unsolicited reply had been a link along the comment “without the extra comma you make it sound as though the primary school and local tavern are one single identity. However nice that would be for the parents waiting to pick their children up after school, I doubt that this would actually be allowed for obvious health and safety reasons” which managed to hint at enough sarcasm and distain to make Connie laugh and take notice. Since then he's never gone without the Oxford comma.)

Another problem that Connie seemed to have was that he always ended up walking in on someone making out. At every party we’d ever crashed together, he’d been the one to walk in on the couple going at it in the bathroom or the bedroom, and end up coming to me, drunk and distant, with eyes just about as wide as they could ever be, and normally squealing and babbling incoherently.

Similar to the noise that came from the booth next to mine- Armin’s.

“OOOOOOOOOooohhhh no no no seriously no eww stop it EEEEEWWWW.”

“Fuck off Connie.” That was Eren, his voice rough and irritated. There was another squeak from a new voice at that point.

“Seriously man. I’m pretty used to that shit by now but come on.”

“We were only kissing Con, shut the fuck up.”

“Not next door to me you’re not.” I shout over the noise of the room and the noise cancelling walls. “I don’t want to have to think about gross PDA moments, thanks.”

“What about you and Marco, eh?” The now levelling voice retaliated. I could hear Armin saying Eren’s name along with a dull thump that I hoped it came from the blond hitting Eren’s thick head.

Connie laughed. “Yeah, but they sure ain’t as bad as you guys. I haven’t seen Jean straddling Marco with one hand up his shirt.”

At that I stood up and let angry profanities stream from my lips in a way I hadn’t let myself do in a long time. From standing in the position I could see what had vaguely been described to me peeping just over the separation. Eren was straddling Armin, as said, with one hand hidden beneath the white shirt of the smaller man. Armin had placed both hands on Eren’s chest in a vague display of embarrassed rejection. His face had completely flushed in a way that made his gawking eyes look dry and incredibly white from the shock of being caught. Eren on the other hand wasn’t at all perturbed and casually trailed his fingers behind the blind of fabric, the other holding onto the back of the chair.

“Ew.”

“Come off of it Buckaroo. Stop being a dick.”

“But, like here? Seriously?”

Armin coughed lightly, looking from Jean to Eren. “Get off me please.” Green eyes scrunched in unwillingness, but Eren thankfully moved his ass away. “Sorry Connie, we got carried away I guess.”

“Hey, no worries. I’m so fucking used to it by now…” Connie’s voice trailed off as he leaned against the wall, and i could see the flash of pain at the memory of every accidental walk-in. Eren went to stand next to him. “You seen the invite?” The bald man asked Armin.

“No. Why is it bad?”

“Hanji’s gonna fuck us all over,” he laughed. “Yeah, it sounds terrifying. Have a look.”

I scooted around to look at Armin’s computer as he flicked through his emails until he came to the one that came from the rarely used email address many people feared.

This particular email was only ever used once a year to deliver the invitation to the infamous Christmas party. I myself had never attempted to go to the party, deciding I’d really rather not get pissed in front of people I barely knew, and to avoid Hanji’s crazy antics as much as humanly possible. If I was gonna get drunk, it was with the usual group and in some club that was so close to my apartment that the risk of me getting lost is drastically reduced, or in a flat where I could crash and then steal breakfast. It certainly wasn’t gonna be in the middle of the office.

Armin brought the invitation onto the screen, making the whole thing fullscreen to emphasise the black background and elegant script. Need to say, it wasn’t exactly what I expected. The vibrant greens and reds I had come to anticipate were replaced with black and white. No pictures of Santa graced the screen, instead replaced with more suble black. For once, the invitation looked as though it was decent, not cheesy or cringe-worthy. Basically, it meant it didn’t look as though Hanji had planned this by themselves.

“This sounds… interesting,” Armin commented as he read through the text.

Connie laughed as he watched Eren’s expression drop. “No keep going it gets better.”

 

**To all Employees!**

**Christmas has returned to us once again at the end of another productive and successful year and so, to congratulate you all, the annual Christmas party has been relocated to a _secret location_ , specifically chosen by the head editor himself.**

**On top of this, Levi Ackerman is celebrating his 10 th year with The Daily Recon, and is celebrating his 40th birthday as well as having a special announcement for you all.**

**_Stop dreaming of a white Christmas, this year’s festive season is going to be black!_ **

**_On 22 nd of December, meet in the lobby at 20:30 where you will be taken to the location for an evening of drink and dirty debauchery._ **

**_Partners from outside work welcome. Dress code- Masters and pets._**

**Please inform Hanji Zoe by email if you can attend :)**

****

“Sounds shady, don’t it?” Eren nodded at Connie’s question.

“Sounds fucking kinky.” I added.

“It’s Hanji. They’re gonna plan something unusual.” Armin said before resting one elbow on the desk and placing his head in his hand, chewing his fingernails. “Then again, Levi chose the location so he had to be in on it too.”

“So Levi’s a kinky little shit?”

“I wouldn’t say _little_ ” a new voice interrupted, “he’d kill you in many horrible ways. Then again, it could be very exciting.”

Hanij was walking towards us, clearly noticing that we were discussing their handiwork. The ever-present sadistic smile was plastered on their face, and somehow they’d manage to catch the lights in the office in such a way that their glasses reflected the bright light, shielding their eyes.

“But you like it, no? You’re going to go?” they asked, and Connie was already enthusiastically shaking his head.

“You planned it right?” he questioned the person who then folder their arms, slumped and sighed dramatically.

“Mostly, but Levi and Erwin had a helping hand.”

“Are you serious? It wasn’t just you?” Armin piped up, voice getting squeakier in shock. None of us really expected Erwin to ever get involved.

Hanji on the other hand looked as though we’d asked them what the colour of their shirt was and at the same time insulted their parents- a mixture between sarcastic shock and epic disappointment. “Uh, yeah. Duh. Levi and Erwin have been friends for yonks! Ya think Erwin’s gonna let Levi’s la-“ Hanji coughed, breaking up what they were just about to say “I mean, his birthday. He’d want to make sure it’s totally fucking awesome.”

Eren looked to Armin, who gave a slight but cautious nod. “Sure. Me and Ar will go. I’ll have to check with Mikasa.”

Hanji hugged Eren tightly as they squealed. The room went deathly silent at the noise, a warning to the rest of the room to escape before they too became hostages of the androgynous arms. Armin also didn’t manage an escape. Being trapped in his chair by Hanji sure must have been a frightening experience, but thankfully for him, it ended quickly.

“I-I’ll ask Sash,” Connie said quietly and Hanji squealed again, rushing over for another hug. They ended up being blocked by Connie’s flailing limbs, forcing me to back away from the carnage. “No hugs though.”

“Hmph.” Hanji turned to look to me. On instinct I backed away, but they only seemed to follow, drawing closer and staring manically from behind their glassed. “What about you? You gonna bring Freckles?”

“…”

I physically couldn’t think of what to say. There wasn’t a definite answer. I wanted to ask Marco, that was kinda obvious, but perhaps not to _that._ I had a definite, uncomfortable feeling that it wouldn’t be usual and admittedly I was a bit scared to bring him to something that may be creepy or disturbing. I couldn’t trust it, and whilst I’d love to be able to get over that, I was unsure if I could bring myself to.

“Oi, Bullseye.”

I ignored Jaeger. “I’ll ask him.” That was all I was gonna say. I’d need to ask. And then another thought caught my mind and I ran my mouth with it. “Uh, are the freelancers invited?”

Hanji shook her head. “Only the people from the offices.”

I laughed, suddenly realising what had happened mere moments earlier that the others had no clue on yet. “Well, you’d best ask Marco if he’s gonna bring me, ‘cause I started freelancing since ten minutes ago so technically I’m not even employed here anymore.”

 Armin gasped loudly, Connie saying a low “woah” and Eren snorting. Hanji just wailed loudly and flailed around in a childish trantrum. “WHYEEEE JEAN NOO you’ve ruined out plans! Why goddammit.” And then they ran off, flying down to the elevator and screaming “YOU’VE DONE IT NOW! WE HAD PLANS FOR YOU AND MARCO AND NOW YOU’VE RUINED THEM YOU BASTARD.” Armin giggled lightly, looking to me and drawing my attention from the clattering running and questioning co-workers. His eyes hinted at slight sadness.

“I don’t think they’re very happy with you,” Armin said quietly and I shook my head with a slight grin.

“I don’t think so ei-“

“Why’d you quit?” Eren interjected, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms and we all looked to him. “That’s not something you do. And you’ve got it good right now, I mean, article wise.”

I shrugged. “Why does it matter to you?” I huffed loudly, “I don’t know. I wanted a change, I’ve got shit I wanna write, something interesting, I love working on an unpredictable income, more experince… take your pick. Besides, if it sucks, Pixis promised I’d get my job back after a year.”

Connie tugged at his shirt as he pulled himself from the wall, his voice slightly raised in faint anger. “So what? You’re finished now?”

“I guess, I get paid on Saturdays so I'm not waiting around for my check. I was gonna just email Marco and tell him then head back to the flat. I don’t work here now.”

That was a weird thought. I’d stuck around since starting an internship in university, and just stayed on. Two years of doing this around work, then two without. It seemed strange to know that now I’d just be dropping it to do something new and unpredictable. Technically, I didn’t have a solid job any longer. I didn’t really have to work- I just wrote when I wanted, and that was that. For the first time in a long time I was entirely dependent on myself, and I sort of liked the thought of it. Pixis wasn’t standing over my shoulder, and for the first time I was entirely reliant on my own ability and will to find a decent story to write about.

Connie gave me a hug I hadn’t expected, the first to break the stiff air. We’d known each other a long while, and this was it. I wasn’t going to see him every day, or have to work with him a moment longer. I didn’t have to put up with the bundle of energy that ran on coffee and cigarettes, or hear another anecdote that was always based on something stupid Sasha had done. “Dude, I’m gonna fucking miss your sorry ass. We’re gonna have to go out drinking every fucking week.”

I huffed, wrapping my hands around his back and patting it in the bro-ish way we’d kind of developed as our own specialty No-Homo hug. “Yeah. Call me when you and Sash are going out next.”

“You’re seriously going?” Armin said quietly, standing from his chair. “Really, really going?”

“I guess. I’m not fucking disappearing off of the face of the Earth, Jesus. I’ll probably be in to see Pixis or Levi every week, if not more. And I’ve got your number, Ar.” I reached over to give the guy a hug. Armin looked as though he was going to cry and I couldn’t look. He was nice, and I really respected him and his work, despite him being the office baby. “I’ll get Con to keep an eye on you and Eren for me.”

“I don’t need you to keep an eye on us, dick.” Eren said and I stuck my finger up at him from behind Armin’s back.

“Yeah you do. I like to know when you screw up.” I said, pulling away from Armin to take the hand Eren had extended to me. ”At least now the horse names will stop. That’ll be nice.”

“They aren’t gonna. I’ll just text you them instead, Buckbeak.”

I puffed a laugh, tutting at Eren’s stupid name. “Buckbeak is a hippogriff. That was shit, dude.”

“Yeah well so are you.” He retorted, pumping my hand firmly, a small smile passing his lips.

“Ouch. My skin's burnt.” I deadpanned. Eren smiled lopsidedly and for a moment, I let myself slip. “I think I might miss your shit names, just a little bit.”

Eren shook my hand one more time before taking his grip away and pursing the grin, lips thinning. “Maybe I’ll miss you a bit too, but only ‘cause I’ll have no verbal punching bag anymore.”

“Stop with the fucking frenemy slash bromance thing, you weird fucks.” Connie slapped us both around the back and I laughed out loud.

Truth be told, I don’t hate Eren as much as I let on. I just disagree with pretty much everything he says and does.

“Look after Mik and Ar, okay?”

Eren just huffed loudly, slapping my arm. “You think I won’t?”

That was all I needed to hear, and I returned the gesture before going to what once had been my desk and going onto the email. Eren, Armin and Connie had slipped around behind me as I started a new message, partially typing Marco’s name before clicking his email and starting to write. They all watched as I typed as though, for some reason, my message was the final straw, and they’d just sent me all off for this moment. This was the end for me there, and typing that final email confirmed it all.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell Marco in person. It was cowardly, I know, but in a way strange way I couldn’t pluck up the courage to say a formal goodbye. This was official. I’d spent less than an hour at the office and already I’d quit my job and had already said my farewells to whoever was around that I had grown to care about.

 

**Marco,**

**I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t seem abrupt. I have just quit and I’ve decided to start freelancing for a while, so you don’t have to edit for me from now on.**

**Thank you for everything you’ve done for me here.**

**See you on Saturday?**

**-J**

 

******

 

“ _Maman_ , I didn’t get fired. I quit.”

I put the phone on loudspeaker, laying it on the armrest of my couch as my mother screeched down the phone. _“But you were doing so well. Why do you want to leave now?”_

“I don’t know, it felt right. I had a moment of realisation at the weekend, by the lake and-“

My mother huffed loudly, enough for a low chuckle to sound in the background, most likely my father listening into the conversation. _“You went to the lake and didn’t come to see us?”_

“It was really late at night, _Maman,_ and I had… company. I couldn’t just pop over and say hi.”

There was a moment of quiet, and I pulled my legs up onto the cushions, bending them so I could wrap my arms around them. The room was falling into a damp darkness despite the relatively midday hour and the reasonably clear sky. But from the window it looked as though a dark cloud was blowing in, casting a greying shadow over the street and beyond. Titan seemed to notice too, snuggling deeply by my side and snoring quietly.

I wished that I hadn’t mentioned that someone was with me, though. _“Who did you have with you, Jeanbo?”_

“Just, don’t worry about it Ma. Pretend I hadn’t said anything.”

The lady laughed down the phone. I knew she wasn’t going to drop it; she was about as persistent as a person could get and loved to pry into my life, especially now when I wasn’t living with her any more. That was one of the reasons I normally tried to avoid my mother as much as humanly possible, she had a way of prying information out of people that was both irritating and inspirational; it was a personality trait I respected in a professional sense. I’d always admired that quality and secretly hated it too thanks to years of living with it. The lady started cooing as she asked me _“do you have a girlfriend?”_

I laughed just as hard as the woman had although slightly louder. “I haven’t had a girlfriend for… well, ever. What makes you think I’d start now?”

My mother huffed at the question she knew the answer to. It was still kind, an answer to our internal joke that meant nothing despite also meaning nothing and, _oh_ , nothing once again. My parents had always understood to the point that it didn’t really need to be said. They were just pleased that I was happy and alive- that was all that mattered, and the rest was a joke and history and ‘that’s all folks’ wrapped into one.   _“Okay so boyfriend, then.”_

“No.” I said. “Well, kinda. I’m not really sure what we are. Just dating, I guess. Can we talk about something not embarrassing?”

The lady laughed along with the other voice in the background, and I swore lightly before she got around to talking again. _“If you want. Which reminds me, did Mamie call you this morning about Christmas lunch?”_

I huffed, remembering the sleepy French conversation and internally cursing the festive season. “I did, and I said I’d see what I’d be doing, which appears to be nothing now I’ve not got a job. So I guess it’s okay for me to come over.”

_“And New Year? Your dad has family coming visiting.”_

“I’ll check again. I think I might be going out with Connie if he’s in the country still but I can come around for a bit if you want.”

 _“Sure.”_ My mother said, before she went quiet for a moment.

“Ma?” I asked cautiously.

_“No, nothing I don’t want to pry if you don’t want to tell me.”_

“I’m sure you would but there’s not much to pry on.” I sighed. “Seriously, I’ve known him for a couple of weeks and that’s it.”

_“But you like him, no?”_

I ‘tsk’ed, shaking my head at the question. “I wouldn’t go out with him if I didn’t like him.”

_“But you aren’t in a relationship yet.”_

“No.”

 _“Would you like to be?”_ I could hear the rising excitement in my mother’s voice, perturbing me slightly and making me shudder. I really hated it when she pried, yet I let her. I couldn’t deny her- I loved her too much for that. Something I also hated but admired was the way she knew me way too well. That was probably the whole parent-child relationship thing though.

“Yeah I guess.” A squeal came from down the phone, followed by some quickly spoken French and a giggle. “You’re so embarrassing.”

 _“I try, Jeanbo, I really do.”_ She gasped quickly at a sudden thought, _“Invite him over for Christmas lunch.”_

“Are you kidding? _Mamie_ would have a fit.” I hadn’t yet explained to my grandmother that I was gay. I didn’t exactly want the whole conversation with her, mostly because her old fashioned mannerisms didn’t exactly inspire confidence into the thought that she’d be accepting. Plus talking to her was like talking to a wall made out of baguettes and garlic and _escargot._

 _“You don’t know that. Besides, if Mamie likes him, then there’s no problem.”_ The bell went off at the door, Titan barking loudly and running to jump up next to the panel that buzzed airily for exactly three seconds before cutting off with a loud click.  _“What was that?”_

“The door. I think it’s the books I ordered.” I picked up the phone, carry it over as my mother spoke.

_“Okay. Hey, perhaps I can casually ask her how she feels about… well, and go from there. It might be better than dropping that bombshell on her on Christmas morning.”_

“I’d prefer that you didn’t do either one. Or… I don’t know. You’re her daughter, you’d know better than me what to do. I’ll just ask him anyway and go from there.” I pushed the button, a light crackling coming from the shitty microphone. “Hello?”

 _“Jean?”_ Two voices came at once, and I blocked one out, as the other spoke again, quiet and low and rough, _“he-hello?”_

“Hey Marco. I’ll buzz you up.” I pushed the button, a light hum sounding from somewhere. I turned back to the phone. “Sorry _maman,_ I’ve got company, apparently. I’ll call you back later if you want.”

_“Is this the boy you’re dating? Marco, was it you said?”_

“God, stop. Ugh, yeah it is.”

_“Good, I’d like to talk to him.”_

I laughed, hearing footsteps tapping rhythmically up the stairs. “No, you’re really not. I’ll call you later.” I pressed the end call button before she could say anything past “ _but Jean_ ”, putting the phone into my back pocket as a faint knock graced the door.

Deciding not to look too enthusiastic, I waited for a couple of seconds, letting the knot of excitement curl in my stomach in the way it always seemed to do around Marco. Titan barked by my feet, and I shushed him quietly with a breathless noise, keeping him away from the gap in the door as I reached to open it, his tiny body attempting to jump around my foot.

The door parted, but only slightly, chain keeping the gap only a few inches wide as I peeked through, seeing a flash of dark hair and a thick knit of wool I immediately recognised. “Hey,” I said quietly, and Marco turned to look at the gap. With my free hand I unlatched the metal strap from the wall, allowing the heavy wood to swing away and open the bridge between us.

He didn’t seem right. Not ill or anything, just… off. Marco was askew and yet the most on edge I’d ever seen him despite looking nothing but mildly serene. Somehow his face looked almost swollen. It wasn’t, but it had a quality, sort of like when you cry and your face just ends up looking like you shoved cotton wool in your cheeks. There wasn’t redness in Marco’s eyes, and barely a blush on his cheeks apart from the constant winter chill that seemed to tint everyone’s skin. Yet he was off, and it was disconcerting.

“Hey,” I said again, quietly as he stepped inside and took a couple of paces, closing the door behind him. “What’s up?”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, Marco looked to the floor, tugging absentmindedly on the bottom of the jumper I’d given him.

Dark green was a good colour.

“Marco…”

“S-ssorry.”

“Naw, hey. What for?”

He gulped loudly, not looking to me, but staring at Titan who snapped his mouth shut and flung a line of drool across Marco’s black jeans. “I don’t kn-n-nnow.”

The lack of an explanation was about as convincing as my big toe, and there was little I could do but look to study the paling face flicked with a dark that matched the dark circle of his iris. I could do nothing but stand in front of his hunched shoulders and take the soft fabric surrounding his upper arms and squeeze. “Hey…”

“Hi.”

I barely supressed a chuckle and Marco looked up, slightly confused. “I thought we’d already said hi.”

“B-but y-yyo-ou ssaid he-ey.”

“Yeah but not like… not like that,” I shook my head at the flustered look and growing spread of warmth on Marco’s cheeks, and I bit my lip to push down the urge to just press my forehead into his and just watch the amaranth bloom, and see how his eyes would widen with cool innocence, pupils dilating as I got closer. That was really hard not to do, like, fucking category four level shit. “So, what’s up?” I repeated.

Dark eyes moved to the floor again, “I… I wan-n-nnted to kn-now y-you’re okay af-f-fter… y-you didn’t re-reply t-to m-mmy ema-ail.”

I smiled, despite Marco not looking, and noticed that Titan had decided to snuffled the back of my leg. “I’m good, really good actually. And yeah, sorry about that but it was sort of a last minute thing.”

“Why?” The eyes had returned, not distant but present and dark. They were brooding, pondering that I’d said. “Why d-did y-yyou go?”

“Because…”

_Because I realised that I don’t want to rely on anyone else. Because I realised that anyone can be strong, and I haven’t been. I’ve been weak and complacent and I’ve barely stumbled along and somehow I’ve gotten it good and I don’t know why. Everything I have done since the first day I decided to study English has been one long favour for someone else and I have almost nothing to show for it._

“… because I want to do something for myself.”

My hands had been resting on Marco’s arms the entire time, and I let them drop with a sigh. I was now the one looking to the ground and seeing Titan look up with clouded eyes and a lolling tongue that wetted my socks and puddles spittle on the floor. That made me smile, to know that he was at least dumb enough not to know that things would be tougher and I’d have to work twice as hard despite having less than half of the work.

“It probably sounds stupid, but going back to the lake- I don’t know- it made me think, I guess. And I sorta realised that it’s so fucking boring that I want to cry or punch Pixis like ninety percent of the time and when I’m not complaining I’m either arguing with Eren or…” That was the moment I realised that my tangent was going to become really fucking soppy, so I trailed off, leaving Marco to switch from an expression of interest and understanding to a sudden jolt of confusion.

“Or…?” He asked, Titan filling in the silence with grunts and snores.

I huffed, “okay this will sound weird, like creepy but-“

“I d-don-n’t m-mmind.”

“Fine. Fine, okay,” I took a breath and saw Marco grin as he watched me prepare my words. “Okay, well… fuck okay I… when… ugh why is this so hard?”

The smile in front of me stretched and broke with a deep chuckle.

“Shut up.” The sound stopped, but the smile remained in the dark eyes that seemed to grow as I looked to them. Somehow, for some stupid reason, their immeasurable depth was comforting, barely taken by brief blinks that stole the only contact we shared. They never looked away, never faltering or failing to draw me closer, and I didn’t care. I welcomed every moment. “I guess… when I was with you, you sort of, well… okay, yesterday? You didn’t say anything when I read the book, you just listened. And you cried, well, it doesn’t seem like it takes much but… but I wanted that reaction, y’know? And I guess it was encouraging and I wanted to do that again. And I didn’t feel like when I was writing whatever the hell Pixis wanted me to that I didn’t get that. I didn’t feel like it was gonna make people think, that it was just gonna be more useless shit that no one would notice. And I kinda realised that, you helped me to realise that and… so yeah.”

Pure, unadulterated silence, white in a whole purity that burnt in every sense. A cool nothing that seemed immeasurably palpable and real but untrue. 

There was noise, there was commotion everywhere in the world, in every direction and it never stopped for anyone. Yet we were still and silent, burrowed in the folds of our quiet and alone in that instant. We had no words left, my actions spent and all thoughts laid bare in the thick air.

That was when Marco crossed the small distance between us and kissed me hard, lips rough and heavy against mine, and I immediately opened my mouth in shock. My breath rushed past us, hot with his scent- summer and a faint, spiced salt- and he pushed harder, taking my bottom lip and suckling. I couldn’t stop the hitch in my breathing, nor could I stop how I pushed back, wrestling playfully and letting everything become messy and quick and close.

Before too long one arm had wrapped around my waist, the other settling in my hair and grazing between the short stubble of my neck to the long blonde in time with the movements and tilts of our heads as we pulled apart and ended up together again in a violent clash of lips and teeth and tongues and rough breathing that didn’t let me concentrate, only drawing us together.

I started to pull back, dragging Marco with my by the jumper that had once been by mine, and by nipping at his mouth to take his tongue between my teeth with each small step I took towards where I thought the couch was.

It was all so natural and primal. We just moved, and I lead nothing but our direction. Everything else was Marco, and I couldn’t get enough of anything; the sounds he made, the tiny breaths and hums that numbed my lips and drew me to the side, to move around him and with him and against him as I slid my hands down from his chest, reaching for the hem of his shirt and lifting it to find the top of his jeans, my own vibrating and pinging with a call that we ignored.

His arm moved to my neck with the next step, and my fingers skimmed the rim of fabric against his skin, and Marco shivered into the kiss with the faint brush. I couldn’t stop, I kept kissing, and we would pull away to take a breath only to move back and go harsher than before, not bothering with the wet that connected our lips and tongues and snapped as we pulled too far apart before we returned.  My hands just slipped, falling down the back of his jeans with a sigh against my lips as I melded the hot skin of Marco's ass into my palms before pulling up and rutting myself against him, no longer bothering or caring to admit that I wasn’t enjoying it way too much, my hedonism clearly evident against his also rather obvious (and well sized if I may add) pleasure. We were strained and we welcomed the friction I’d created, both ushering a sigh before returning, taking another small step back and feeling the press of something against the back of my leg as Marco pulled my hair up to run his tongue against mine, the leg catching the object as I pulled close.

I didn’t even realise we had fallen until my head thudded against the floor, thankfully broken by Marco’s hands. My back didn’t fare so well, falling with a slap to the floor, and a heavy body falling on my chest a moment later, blasting all air from my chest and Titan yelped, skittering away and snorting with displeasure.

“Fuck.” We both spoke at the same time when he hit, bouncing slightly before splitting with the force, my hands falling away and Marco’s body slipping from mine, his head sitting by the crook of my neck. It took a moment; between my loss of breath and the realisation that Marco’s hands looked as though he’d punched a brick wall, we took a little while to recover and for Marco to roll from where he partially lay on my chest with a heave, lying next to me as we breathed.

“Sorry Jean.”

I looked to Marco, still wheezing as he looked from my face to his hands, knuckles bruised already and bleeding from where the floor broke easily against taught skin.

“Hhhuh… no d-hhhhuh don’t be hhhuhh sorry.” A shaky cough escaped my lips. “you hhhuhh didn’t do anything. Fucking dog, I was enjoying that.”

The laugh that tore through the room and overtook the sound of my phone ringing against my ass again could do nothing but draw out a smile. Marco couldn’t stop laughing, his face blushing from the lack of air, eyes beginning to water as he took his damaged hand to his face to wipe the drops away before lifting his hips to pull up the jeans I'd managed to drag down whilst getting handsy. I had no idea why he found it so funny, but it was one of those laughs that just make you want to laugh too, and I couldn’t help myself and soon we were both in hysterics over nothing, ignoring the snorting animal that ruined the awesome make out session and the buzz that continued against my butt as I rolled around and held the six pack I could feel developing.

We laughed for too long, but it didn’t matter. It had become too serious, and I guessed that karma just decided that it wanted us to stop sucking face and do something innocent instead.

Fuck you karma, you bitch.

I breathed, slowing down the giggles until I forced them to stop, swallowing and looking to Marco who was breathily sighing the last few laughs. “Did you literally just come here to make out? ‘Cause I really don’t mind if you do this again.”

He stopped, looking to me as we lay on the floor. He shook his head. “I w-w-wa-as g-gon-nna ask I-if you w-w-wwannted t-to go to th-hhe Christm-m-m-mmas p-party… because I kn-now y-you can’t g-go so-“

“Did Hanji tell you that? ‘Cause I’ll kill them next time I see them.” The look I got was somewhere between shock, confusion and the return of the laughter, but I continued. “Sure. I’ll go with you.”

Another short laugh ran around the room alongside an arm slapping my chest lightly to which I dramatically reacted by clutching the spot he hit and crying out in fake pain. Marco gave a look of relief at the realisation that I was just being sarcastic- mostly- and smiled, shuffling to kiss me on the cheek around soft puffs of laughter.

“Okay. But you have to do something for me.” I smiled, Marco sitting up to look at me.

“What i-is it?”

I sat up too, still smiling and watching as the smile slowly faded as mine grew stronger.

There was no way to know if this would be a good idea, but I was sure that I wanted it to happen, no matter what. I was ready for the next step, sort of early, but I didn’t care. It was the development, and that was what I wanted. I didn’t want this to stop.

“Marco,” I looked into his eyes, still smiling against the slowly widening whites and growing red as I spoke his name, “how would you feel about meeting my parents?”

 

I’ve never seen Marco looked more shocked. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY DAYS, I HAVE RETURNED.
> 
> Weirdest weeks of my life, I swear. I'm just so tempted to just tell you all how manic but also how fucking cool-beans life has been since the last update.
> 
> But first- WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THAT SLEEP WAS SO FUCKING AWESOME?!?! Seriously, I went to this clinic thing and i got nine hours of sleep and I woke up and probably made orgasm noises because SLEEP IS GOOD, NEVER MISS SLEEP KIDS.
> 
> Second, the guy down the hall from me watched SNK too, although his OTP was yumikuri ( I gave him a bro hug for that, 'cause they really are too cute and I totally love them) and then we talked about Levi and his sexy man voice for about two hours and how much we both hated Eren's voice in the dub but Jean and Marco and Connie were pretty good. Then we read all of the manga I'd brought with me and listened to the SNK soundtrack. Also I played on the swings for two hours straight like I was seven all over again, and I have to say it's one of the most liberating things I've ever done, especially when singing Billy Talent songs and still wearing pajamas whilst being shouted at by a nurse for wearing slippers outside.
> 
> Third, thank you for being so lovely about everything! It's all been a really mad rush of things and loads of shit happened all at once, so now home is super busy. But I'm giving myself the time to write and just do something I enjoy, so yeah.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos' and hits and comments! I got past 1750 hits and, ugh, you guys are amazing! Thanks so much for being so supportive and wonderful and I love you so much ^^
> 
> (Also, can anyone tell me how to hyperlink on these notes? I'm a fucking IT student, I should be able to do this, but no, apparently not. Well done me, you excel at life. Gold star, you absolute winner.-- HEAVILY IMPLIED SARCASM IS HEAVILY IMPLIED)
> 
> On top of all this useless crap I'm spouting, have you heard of A Slap On Titan? It's on YouTube and I swear it's the most beautiful thing I've ever watched. Armin is the next Adolf Hitler, and I love him in every single way, the kinky little shit. Jean has a really crap English accent that makes me cringe like a motherfucker and he has Suit-Vest and lube, and Connie is slightly Mexican. It's great, I promise.
> 
> *P.S. My new nickname for Jean is WarHorse... because he.... he's in a war and... and he... he's... he's a horse... and... yeah.*
> 
> Love you guys loads. *kisses cheek and runs off to join the circus*
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	12. Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco has a day off and does something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many filler, such avoidance of the main plot, very fluff.
> 
> Wow.
> 
> (It's okay, you can hit me for that.)

Why does every doctor’s waiting room look the same? Why do they all share the same sickly green of the walls, the same pallid wooden desks and bright blue chairs that are seem to dig into your back in all the wrong places, yet give the impression of being at least slightly comfortable? Why do they all share these characteristics?

I think it’s because all doctors share the same complex as waiting rooms. Professionals are moulded into the same exact form and then scattered to the four winds and left to carry on with their duties. They are all pallid and sickly with the complaints of others. Doctors attempt at comfort, yet they manage to only prod in all the wrong places, ask questions that probe too far and don’t allow relaxation, only giving a dull ache that keeps you shifting and unable to settle and throw away your anxiety.

Needless to say, I hated doctors and everything they stood for, and even though I’d spent many, many hours with them I never grew any fonder of their profession. Doctors churn people out and bring them in and that’s their job. They serve a purpose that isn’t to care, but to follow procedure. I can't say that my job wasn’t exactly the same thing, I couldn’t say that a farmer had the same problem and I couldn’t say that teachers didn’t sometimes use a default setting on students. Passion is lost in the race for haste and professionalism, individuality is sucked through the cracks of a slowly failing system until someone realises, too late, that eccentricity is the key to success when it comes to understanding others. Care is based on human emotion and is felt through the soul. Once that is lost there is no longer any true compassion and you may as well tell all of your problems to a computer instead.

This was something completely lost on Dr. Rico Brzenka, who seemed so taciturn that I could barely stand her at all. As soon as I stepped into the room reserved for patients who’d be around for at least an hour, I could already tell that we wouldn’t be the sort of people who would get along. I at least attempted to be nice, holding out my hand in greeting and smiling, but she had none of that. There wasn’t exactly a code of conduct that extended past the medical definition of the phrase. It ran more like, “you are a patient, I cure you and you go.”

“Patient ID M-B-8-6-2-3-6-5-9-9-0, am I correct?”

That, obviously, gave me a slight warning to what would be ahead. Confusion washed over me, but I nodded anyway and watched as she went to the computer. I guessed that I was supposed to sit on the empty chair that sat near to hers, so I took it. She looked to me as the chair scraped across the floor and emitted a screech as the legs were dragged.

“Are you done?” I nod again at her question, smiling against the blank look of disinterest. She turned to the computer again, flicking through a file she had brought up onto the screen and scanned it through quickly. “It says here that there is no cause. I don’t believe that, there has to be a reason. Verbal disfluency is either caused by injury or by some sort of trauma.”

I just shrug, reaching down to rummage through my bag. I could already tell that Dr. Brzenka most likely wouldn’t stand the way I talked. Empathy didn’t seem to be her strong-suit. There was little emotion on her face or in her monotone voice and it didn't bode well.

**No abuse, no major family problems in my younger years, no bullying until much later, no brain trauma of any kind. I just have it.**

“Hmm.” The doctor thought it through, looking through the notes once again, and I could see the changing names of every person I’d ever been examined by. “It has to be psychological. You also get better with music in the background and when alone.”

I nod again. Really, I didn’t need this. I knew every silly detail, everything that makes my stutter better or worse. Dr. Brzenka didn't, although I would have thought that she would have at least looked at my file before scraping precious and expensive minutes off of the time I spent with her.

_How many doctors does it take to realise that there was nothing significant about my past to warrant my speech impediment? The answer? Twelve and counting._

“You get worse in high pressure situations. Are there certain people who make it easier to talk with?”

Nodding again, I suddenly realised how fruitless this would be. I could see her already planning the exercises she’d give me to practice, the ones I knew off by heart.

“You tried having headphones in when talking?”

**Doesn’t really work with the job.**

“What about singing your sentences.”

I just shook my head hard. That was something I wished I’d never tried. Of all the things I regretted in life, that was first above everything else. It was like someone walked over my grave every time that incident was brought up. My whole body would shiver with unadulterated distress.

“Okay, well the exercises. You still do them?” I nodded once more and she carried on. “Do that still. What about speech therapy?”

**I don’t have the money for it.**

“So that is out of the question.”

I took the pen in my hand and flipped over to a new page, writing as she continued to look through the notes. When I finished, I held out the notepad. She stayed ignorant of its presence, still looking at the screen and scrolling through the copious pages of notes, eyes blank behind her glasses.

“What about- oh.” She turned, finally noticing the notepad.

**I’ve tried everything, so unless you’ve got something new there really is no point in me being here. I know that is blunt, but we both know there isn’t much else we can do about it and I’m not keen on beating around the bush only to reach the same conclusion.**

“Yeah well sorry. You have to be. It’s my job I have to run through this, even though we both know that it is useless.” The chair she sat on swung back around so that the doctor sat somewhat diagonally, partially facing me as she pulled up something and began to type. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Try and talk. Firstly, name.”

“Mmmarco.”

“Full name.”

“Mmarco Bo-odt.”

“Age.”

“Tww-wenty eight.”

“Repeat the sentence. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

I always hated doing this. “The qu-qu-qu… qu-quu-qui-i-iii… qui-i-iick br-r-rown-nn f…f-ffo-ox j- ugh.” Stupid, difficult words.

“Again.” She demanded.

I sighed, taking a deep breath and ignoring the fact that Dr. Brzenka was staring hard, not helping the flutter of nerves as I tried to think about how to make sure that the sentence came out right. My eyes instinctively shut as I spoke, blocking out the icy glare of the doctor.

“The qu-qui-ick br-r-rrown f-ff-fox jumped o-over the la-a-azy dog.”

She nodded once, turning back to the computer and writing something down. “Decent. Okay, has there been anything worth taking note about, either new incidences or anything you’ve done that I should put on your file. Talk, though. Don’t write it.”

“I-I had a br-r-reakdow-wn at w-w-work. B-but i-iit’ss sssorted n-now.” Doctor nods, writing something down. She doesn’t press further. By now, doctors of mine know not to pry, especially if I say everything is solved. I normally cry- that’s probably written somewhere in the notes- and I probably had a long list of times when I needed a cool down period after mentioning something painful; thirteen years ago, eleven years ago, ten years ago, ten years ago, ten years ago, eight years ago…. “Also I t-talked o-oon the ph-hone.”

“Oh? And how did that go?”

“O-okay, I th-think.”

She writes that down too. “That’s good. It shows some sort of progress. Just the once, or more?”

I held up one finger and she looked at it before writing it down. “Well, there isn’t a lot left for me to do. Can we just go through the usual things, breathing, and throat examination and so on, just to see what is happening there. I can’t exactly do anything more and I have nothing new, well, that isn’t already in your notes. These sessions are null and void, but you need them, I suppose with the recommendation of your previous consultant.”

So that was what we did. For half an hour I did the usual doctor’s routine, Dr. Brzenka forcing me to breathe into a tube to measure lung capacity, a light and a stick stuck down my throat to check my throat (after years of that I’d ended up having a pretty screwed up gag reflex. It was a really bad party trick, but as a little kid I’d swallow as many strawberry laces as I could all at once, letting the ends hang out of my mouth, and I’d pull them out one by one and watch everyone squirm, especially my cousin. I just found it hilarious. Of course, in later years I’d found other uses for the lack of this reflex.) Then I had to hum for a bit, sing for a bit more along the doe-ray-me scale, and I saw the doctor flinch at how bad my singing was, a mixture of being completely out of tune and still stuttering the gobbledygook words. After that was some mouth stretches, a few techniques I did at home that involved panting, exclaiming various syllables, swearing to break up the flow of breaks- that one is rather uncomfortable to perform- taking varying depths of breath, and that was it.

The doctor looked as though she’d had enough, and frankly, so had I. We both saw no use in this, but to her I was just money, and if she could spend an hour humouring my affliction and then force another session unto me, then all the better for her.

I picked my bag up from the floor, watching the doctor open the door to allow me to leave. She murmured a formal farewell and I did the same in the best way I could, which was a nod of my head and a small smile.

She slammed the door.

I sighed, walking back to the desk which was now starting to form a small queue from the gaggle of pensioners lined up in front of a tall, whippet woman who tapped at the computer and gave sympathetic smiles, always exactly the same, always unsymmetrical and unnervingly mechanical, at every patient. The three old ladies in front of me in held different parts of their body and complained lightly; the woman at the desk holding her hip as she balanced the fading tan leather bag on the dip of her elbow, the one behind her massaging her right shoulder with long, pink nails. Then the man directly in front, who hunched over the walking frame to lift one leg hidden in disgusting brown corduroy trousers and mutter something about stairs.

It didn’t take long for me to notice that I was the only one who probably made it under the age of fifty, let alone under thirty. The clinical atmosphere and abundance of elderly patients reminded me too much of an old peoples home. I wondered if the patients gathered here to play scrabble and dote over the thought of their grandchildren, a messed up community centre where medical help was on their doorstep.

“Sir?” a fluttery voice called to me, and I jumped. Two old ladies sniggered from a chair, watching with hands over their mouths and I walked up to the desk. The statistical chance of blushing was 1:1- which meant I blushed without fail.

I took out the notepad and pen, leaning on the desk to write a sentence. The old ladies continued to giggle.

**Could I rebook with Dr Brzenka a month from now?**

The lady at the desk looked at what I’d written before putting on the same forced smile, eyes crinkling and for the first time showing more age than she had first let on. The lack of grey in her hair had certainly help mask the closed age gap, but I could see the slight sag of pale skin, deep green eyes dull with age. “Sure. That would be the fourth of January, a Saturday.”

I thought, trying to work out the date I’d be free on another Wednesday.

**Is the 8 th free?**

She read it and looked to the computer again, clicking exactly four times before that smile returned.

“Yep. There’s a free slot at 2pm.” I nodded giving a thumbs-up and earning an ‘ooh’ from one of the ladies. Turning to them, I noticed one turn her head into the neck of the other as they laughed, and the one left to cradle the bouffant of white curls and give a small wave and coo.

To say I had little experience with the elderly was an understatement. How do you react when two petite, old women suddenly latch their interest onto you?

“Ignore them. They’re big flirts.” The woman at the desk followed my gaze, staring down the two women who cackled again. “They seem to forget that they aren’t twenty any more. Name?”

“Mmarco Bodt.”

“Okay Marco you’re next appointment with Dr Brzenka is on Wednesday the eighth of January at two. Would you like an appointment card?”

I nodded, and she went to grab a small slip of paper. “I know this sounds funny, but do you work at Daily Recon? It’s just, my son, Bertholdt, works there and he mentioned your name…” She looked to me, slipping the paper across the pale wood and under the thin pane of glass between me and her. I guessed that  my face showed the truth and she continued. “You were the reason Reiner asked my Bertl out, bless them, almost thirty and they still can’t pluck up the courage to ask each other if they want to date. But I suppose Reiner needed a little kick up the backside to get him going.”

It took a moment for me to remember the face of the tall man I’d only seen once before, but seeing the woman in front of me helped. They had the same eyes, definitely, and even though the woman sat behind the desk I could tell that she was probably taller than I was, another feature I recognised from the gaunt man who had stood next to Reiner. Perhaps it was the calming aura (despite the lacklustre smile) that they both shared that had helped form the connection between the two strangers.

“I thought Berty was going out with that little Annie girl.” One of the old ladies snickered from across the room, and the other hummed in agreement.

“No. They’re just good friends.” The smile on the lady’s face was changed now, warmer than the ones previously offered to me, and I couldn’t repress my own small grin… even if the queue that had started to form behind me tutted and groaned with their waiting. “Bertl wanted to thank you though for what you did, whatever that was. He didn’t really say what happened, just that he was glad it did.”

The memory of that day flashed into my mind, and all of my attempts to push the scarring images out of my head were futile at best. For an eternal instant all I could see was Reiner’s flushed face, contorted with the rasping moans I probably should have taken more notice of, eyes rolled back as he sat on the copy machine with the man with dark hair- the man who is the son of the lady I was stood in front of- knelt on the floor and humming around… around the…

That was before I inhaled half of the Earth’s air and proceeded to tear out my own eyes with my frustratingly blunt fingernails, as somewhere behind me I heard the muffled shouts of names that mixed with my own groan of utter dismay, not exactly aiding the removal of that taxing mental image from my mind.

Why that had counted as helping them, I’ll never know. Perhaps the indent on their pride had a major part to play, particularly for the cocky, big 'n' bold Reiner, in baring their souls to one another. Perhaps they were sick of hiding their blossoming relationship in the makeshift cupboard that was the office copy room and I'd been the one to literally and metaphorically open the door. Who knows. All I know is that if I ever need a shrink in the future, that incident will probably be the first thing I tell them about. The source of my impending mental breakdown will have started from there, and all else continuing after that moment only aids in battering my sanity down further. But if, somehow, that imprinted image had helped them to realise something, then I’d take the consequences.

“I’ll-l l-llet th-thhem-m kn-n-now.” I smiled back to Bertholdt’s mother, and she replied with the same warmth. “T-thhhan-nnk you f-f-ffor telling m-me.”

“No problem. Oh,” and at that moment she stood up, showing off her impressive height (as my failing sense of masculinity was ground into dust and swept out of the door) and pulled out a scrap of paper from the pocket of her uniform. “I know this seems weird of me to give you this, but my Bertl used to suffer from panic attacks, and he mentioned something happening to you at work. He goes to this place in town, and I’m not kidding when I say that this lady works absolute miracles. Honestly, she knows exactly what to say, and like that he just feels better. It's miraculous.”

She clicks her fingers to express just how quickly this wonder-woman changed Bertholdt's mood, and I nodded again, hearing the relieved sigh of the queue as another nurse sat at the unoccupied desk next to the one I stood against and seeing the two old ladies shake their heads and roll their eyes.

“I mean, I don’t know what happened to you, and I don’t want to pry but really, she helps. Normally I keep this around in case… sometimes people need to heal in different ways, but I think you’d benefit more than anyone else here from having it.” The nurse hands over the paper and I turn it over to see an address.

I thank her, and she bares her teeth in a wide grin and wishes me well, apologising, then thanking me, then apologising for thanking me. There was no way for me to absolutely tell, but I thought I saw a light sheen of sweat sit under the edge of her dark hair. That was something else in common between mother and son.

Mentally noting to send Reiner an email the next day, I headed out, giving a small wave to Bertl’s mother and another to the two ladies who sat in the corner as they coo’d a goodbye to me.

In the cold of the outside world, I took out my phone and the screen flashed up with the time and two messages.

**10:37am.**

**From Jean: Would you be willing to take my dog?**

**From Jean: I will pay you to take my dog.**

I laughed, walking to the bus stop as I typed.

**To Jean: That depends. Does your dog like cats? How much are you offering?**

Scanning the timetables I ran my finger along the rows of numbers, the small white sheet still stuck in my palm.

The phone buzzed in my free hand and I flipped it over to look at the screen.

**From Jean: I have no idea.**

**From Jean: I will pay you… (1 item attached)**

I opened it up.

 

 **From Jean:** ****

 

**To Jean: There’s no way I'm taking that dog now. Go suffer with Sir Slobber, you dork ;)**

I put the phone in my back pocket, and went back to look through the times. I found the bus, realising I thankfully didn’t have to wait for long in the cold until the next one turned up. The journey up to the clinic had been strenuous enough; between the handful of late school kids and the last drabble of people making their way to work, I’d had to manage with the reams of elderly people, most of them getting off at the same stop as I did.

The note in my hand was starting to get annoying so I folded it once, placing it in my jean pocket.

For some strange reason, having the barely-there weight of that tiny scrap of paper seemed more obtrusive than my phone. Unlike the sharp corners of the bar of plastic and glass, this leaf of reconstituted tree dug into my skin and felt annoyingly uncomfortable. It didn’t sit right. The crease of the fold kept grabbing my attention, a stiff line against the back of my jeans, creating a tiny pressure that just felt wrong.

I took it out, unfolding it to stare at the scrawl of words. The street stuck out, the swirling handwriting slightly changed; flattened slightly to the right, and every letter slightly more pronounced. Without even thinking I scanned through the list of stops for every bus that passed that way, and found that it was relatively close- six stops away on a rather frequent line, the next one arriving soon.

Technically, I had the day. I’d also spent too little time exploring the city as I had wanted to when I first arrived. What would I have done if I had decided to go home? I’d just work, then sit around and sleep or flick aimlessly through the channels of nagging housewives and skeletal models. This way, I convinced myself, I was actually doing something productive, something potentially useful and informative that had the possibility to inspire and change how I viewed the world. There was another way to potentially ease away my stutter, and I found that idea exciting; it was like going to a haunted house not because you think there are actual ghosts but because you want to be frightened as though there was something paranormal. I called it my excursion, taking out the one-day bus pass I’d bought to avoid having to ask for a ticket twice when I transitioned from one coach to another, and stepping on to the almost bare vehicle and settling down into a plastic seat.

**

I always wonder how those who didn’t grow up in a religious community view churches. Their normally gothic beauty must seem so much more beautiful than what I normally saw- a crumbling relic dedicated to a misguided community.

Steeples and stained glass, brandishing the images of our icons, the ones we are told never to fawn over yet always do, pointed fingers reaching in earnest to an omnipresent god who promised to lend a hand but offered only an effigy and silence in replacement. The burning oil lamps we sung of in rounds, children then their mothers, then their fathers and finally onto the generation that were the only ones wholly committed to such deal as offering your eternal gratitude to someone you never even saw, hanging from the ceiling and emitting a scorching heat, a book with so many contradictions that some of it lay obsolete at the back of every pew.

I never thought I could imagine a church that felt as though it offered a true sanctuary. To others, a church is somewhere you step into and sit, take ten minutes to think of all the things you are grateful for and thank whoever wants to listen for every moment. Churches to others are a place where you confirm to the world that the person who is holding your hand, who is crying at the alter and mouthing the only words you had ever wanted to hear is the one that you choose to love and spend the rest of your lives with as you grow old and tired and cynical. Churches are to others a place of divine beauty that expresses the desire for those who believe in the power of God, a place where people are so devoted that they come and say thanks on a day most would spend doing selfish tasks and thinking of their own needs when, really, a person goes to pray, to hope that whoever hears has the decency to try and keep their one, meaningless life on the pleasurable side of a human existence until the inevitability of death consumes every vestige of their soul.

Growing up to fear such a place is something that sticks with me. Church is a place to repent and kneel and give up your life to something that doesn’t exist. Religion had turned my desire to believe in something celestial sour. I hated the idea that fate could only be followed, that our paths were chosen for us and we couldn’t do anything.

This church let me see the other side too. I was conflicted.

On first appearance, it’s small, rather quaint with the same dark beams that web their way across the historical buildings of Trost, a similar whitewash plastered on the pebble-dashed walls. The arched window was only laced with the elegant curling patterns of the sculpted sandstone that made up the window frame. There was no lead casing, no gawdy colour, only opaque glass that threw blinding shadows of divine light across the wide tiled floor of the pavement. The light shone from within, not the other way around and it was intriguing.

I had to confirm the address, the brass plaque by the door displaying the exact same address as the note.

For the first time, I think I stepped into a church willingly.

The first thing I was greeted with was masses of white flowers, a mix of roses, paper narcissus and baby’s breath tied into sprawling bundles with complex bows. That was just at the door. When I stepped through past the entrance and into the nave I stood in a meadow of white, the flowers everywhere, on the pews and scattered along the roughly cut stone slabs of the floor, draped across the beams in endless drifts of willow curtains, and it made the whole place smell fragrant and sweet, but not overpowering. The warm, damp scent of earth could just be picked up, an underlying tone to compliment the perfume of the indoor meadow.

I did nothing but stand and stare, taking in every inch and every lick of the flower’s petals and verdant leaves. The dull light of outside stained the flowers covering the altar in a shallow grey that matched the dapple marble. Apart from that, the room glowed with a pure light that radiated from every silken petal. It was mesmerising, beautiful in the classic setting of the beamed church. For the first time I loved how a place of worship looked; it didn’t remind me of endless sermons, of old priests who spoke of acceptance but asked for conformity, of trying to believe in something I couldn’t invest in.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” The soft voice drifted from my right, and I jumped, spinning to find the origin of the voice.

A lady stood at the dark entranceway framed with a dark door, clothed in a white that matched the room. She walked towards me, and I couldn’t say a word. She didn’t care. She took her time, taking tiny paces, floating in the cascading gown and moving the tiny white flowers on the floor around the hem with every step. She was short, petite, vibrant deep-red hair spilling out from underneath the curl of white fabric that twisted into and elegant spiral on her head and then waterfall’ed down her back like a veil. The whole time, her dark eyes stayed locked on mine and she never stopped smiling, teasing the corners of her eyes with tiny lines.

“I had so many flowers left, and I couldn’t think of what to do with them, so I put them all in here. Part of me wishes I’d saved them for a wedding, but they wouldn’t have lasted that long, and besides,” she reached me, tiny frame close, and she looked up, smiling with darting eyes that hit mine and then shifted to my left, “it’s better that you are spontaneous sometimes. You see unusual things when you do something out of the ordinary.”

She smiled and suddenly I recognised the face.

This was Madame Rose, the one who had sat with Jean when he had been on the morning television show.

“M-mmmad-d-dam-me R-rrose?” My voice annoyingly came out in barely a whisper, and she smiled, raising her left hand to gently take my cheek. I couldn’t help but flinch at the cool contact of her skin.

“You are something remarkable… this is so strange. I cannot believe what I’m seeing.” In a racing flash of white, the hand was removed and she jumped back with a small squee of delight, taking both hands to cover her heart. The immeasurable grin that crossed her face as she laughed matched the place- other worldly.

“Uhh…”

“No shh, child. Let me just take a look at you, gosh. Gosh diddly-darn it all.” Her voice had fallen into a gentle hush before letting out a bubbling laugh and continuing on this raised tone. “You are wonderful, really. If you’d let me, I’d love to do a reading. Would you let me… Marco, is it?”

The rush of breath that hit the back of my throat burnt. _How did she know?_

“How-“

“Your angel filled in the blank for me. But -ack- I’m sorry, I should have explained better. It’s just I’ve never seen anyone who… well, any two people… No forget it. It isn’t the right time to mention such things. And now I’m rambling, but you came for help, right? I can do that, well, I could do it better than the shop, but we’re here, not there. Follow me please.” Madame Rose was still bubbling with excitement as she flipped around and skipped back from where she had come from. I followed nervously, treading through the flowers as I attempted not to squish them under my feet. The bubbly priestess didn’t seem to care- she flung herself and her snowy dress around, humming a small tune that settled into the strange gap between a hymn and a nursery rhyme.

When we came to the wooden door Madame Rose turned to look at me again, one hand trailing over the knots in the wood as she spoke. “Please excuse the mess Marco. I’m afraid it has been rather hectic around here.”

I put my hands up and my lips twitch up into a small smile. The look was the one I gave when attempting to say 'hey, no one’s perfect. I’m not gonna judge' and it seemed to convey the general idea. Madame Rose grinned. The pallid skin of her cheeks stretched as her eyes glanced from my face to my left, silently checking between the two.

Eventually she stopped and turned around to open the door, ushering me through after she stood against the heavy wood to allow me to pass from the nave and into a new area.

This room was different. Akin to an office, the entire thing had papers scattered across the floor, the only clear space the actual desk itself. It reminded me of Mr Ackerman’s office on a Saturday; he’d get inundated with emails from freelancers and he and Hanji would spend hours trying to flick through them all whilst Oluo and Moblit kept a joint eye on the mail and email, delivering any extras to the office as quickly as humanly possible.

This was a lot quieter.

“Take a seat. I’ll clear some papers and grab an extra chair.” She shuffled through, kicking paper out of the way, and suddenly I realised that a lot of what lay on the floor was articles about her church. Titles claiming ‘Friend or Foe’ and ‘Hidden Secrets of Underground Religion’ fluttered in the air, settling to the floor as Rose put the chair she held down on one side of the table, motioning for me to sit in the one already positioned at the desk. “Please, relax. This is a place to reflect and heal, not worry. I cannot say I follow my own rules though.”

She laughed weakly, and I nodded. There wasn’t exactly a lot I could say.

“Shall we get started then? What hand do you write with-nope, it will be your left. Your angel stands to your left. Can I touch your left hand, Marco?”

I nodded, enthralled by her thought process. She would say something then stop as though interrupted by someone, then correct herself. There was an internal monologue continuing constantly in her mind, and the cogs ticked over in a manner that made it all completely obvious.

Madame Rose took my hand. It was cold still, pale fingers running over the palm of my hand, pushing the back into the desk as she studied the lines before flicking my palm to the wooden surface and tracing the blue vein that ran along the back of my hand. “Palm reading doesn’t say a lot about a person, it only suggests. Your hand is textbook- almost completely perfect lines. The only problem is there,” she points to a waver in the line running from my wrist to index finger, just underneath where the cushioned pad at the bottom of the thumb starts. “That’s teen years early twenties, emotional, not physical trauma. But after that you settle and then that’s it, perfectly straight and lovely.”

Her eyes move from my hand to my face before grazing over my shoulder and back to me.

“Your angel is telling me about the stutter. I did notice you didn’t speak much, but I suppose I talk way too much anyway. Bless your heart, you can’t get a word in edgeways.”  I nodded at her animated talking. Madame Rose tucked a piece of hair underneath the swirl of cloth intertwined with her own locks, securing it firmly underneath the white fabric. “I can see your problem. Your light is fantastic. It doesn’t just frame you, with most people it looks a bit like a full body Jesus halo, but with you it’s like thread that’s all tangled up everywhere and thrown over, a bit like that silly string stuff. Your aura is silly string.”

The giggle the priestess let out at that mental image caused an involuntary flash of shock to pass over my face, and she noticed.

“No, that isn’t a bad thing. Have you heard of the red thread of fate? Of course you have, you’re a very intellectual man, well- wait no?” I shook my head. Vaguely, I remember someone mentioning it a long time ago but nothing past that. “Well, they say that those people who are destined to have an influence on each other’s lives are attached by a red string that cannot be broken, only stretched and tangled. If that were true, it seems that you just got trapped in the tangle. I think that’s rather poetic. It is certainly different. I suppose that your aura is something rather specific… has it always been like that I wonder…?”

She trails off into thought and I let her sit there for a minute as she thinks. Her brown eyes are lost on the space just over my left shoulder and I turn to follow her glare, only seeing nothing.

“W-www-what’s-ss on m-mm-mmy lef-ft?”

Madame Rose snaps out of her daze to look at me. “Oh, your angel. He was explaining some things; how you met someone and how it’s affected your happiness. Your angel looks very grumpy, but I can assure you that he isn’t.”

“He?”

“Most angels attempt to try and empathise with the human they are destined to look over by choosing a gender. There are very few angels who pick genders opposite to that of their human counterpart. In fact, some stay impartial and float in the realm of ambiguity as a person’s view of themselves changes all the time. But all angels are without any sort of sex. Gender is just an appearance and nothing more.”

Madame Rose seems pleased with her explanation, giving a hum of approval before taking my hand again and her eyes drifted over my shoulder once more.

I cannot exactly describe how she looked. It was as though I wasn’t really there, just an observer of two people having a conversation with one out of my line of sight. She watched the invisible entity with great care, nodding and grinning and frowning as soundless words were said, and it amazed me.

It took a long time for her to do anything more than look, and in that time I thought of what she had said. The red string had popped into my mind as soon as she explained it, and I suddenly remembered hearing about it once when I was young. The idea sounded too overly romantic, too perfect and structured, yet I still like the idea of it. A set fate had been something I’d always thought of disregarding and yet the way Madame Rose talked about it made it seem feasible. She believed everything she said and that had a significant effect on me. I wanted to believe it all too, despite what logic was telling me.

“Marco,” her eyes were back on mine, and I snapped out of thought as she spoke my name, “I’d love to tell you everything, but I can’t. Really, your visit is so perfectly unexpected that it truly made my day, and I would love to say everything I want to say, but your angel is telling me that I can’t. Not now, anyway.”

“W-wwhat c-can you t-te-eell m-mme?” my curiosity was peaked, and years of expecting answers to questions forced out my own inquisition.

She took a moment to think it through, placing one finger on her sharp chin and tapping three times. “Everything is wonderful. Just strive for happiness, be spontaneous sometimes and work hard. Push yourself out of your comfort zone. Also, whilst there is a brew I could give you to help ease the stuttering, I don’t want to give it to you. Your speech impediment is part of your identity and in many ways it would be a shame. I can give it to you, if you want. But honestly, you don’t need it. There is nothing that you need to change about yourself to make anyone happy. You thrive, and you have fun, and I cannot see a reason why you would ever want to change that. Embrace it, Marco. Do what makes you happiest.”

After she finished her speech, Madame Rose slid her hand from mine, smiling weakly as she searched my face.

The room was silent, the only noise the occasional flutter of paper from the draft that slid under the door. I pondered her words, letting them take a-hold of my thoughts as I analysed them, and she did the same to my thoughtful expression.

“I want to tell you, I really do. But I think I need to call my sister up here, and I think something else needs to be done first, too.” I nodded after she finished, swallowing to expel the dryness that had crept into the back of my throat.

My phone buzzed. Madame Rose smiled.

“Go ahead, answer it.”

I lifted myself up from the chair slightly, digging out my phone and flipping it up.

**One new message.**

**From Jean: now that’s just mean. I didn’t think you had the tenacity to call me something as rude as dork! Since when did you start being such a badass?**

I didn’t reply, just smiled at the phone. Madame Rose let out a soft sigh.

“I see now. That was Jean, wasn’t it?” The breath I sucked in answered her question for me. “He arranged an interview with me tomorrow, you know.”

“H-hhow did you kn-now?”

The smile that lit up the room returned, creasing the corners of her steel blue eyes once more. She looked directly at me and at that moment I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding in. “As soon as it came through, the angel put a hand on your shoulder and said his name.” The moment a loud knock sounded on the door and we turned to face it, the room falling into complete silence, and we both let it stay that way, unsure of what to say next. It must have been an entire minute before either of us made a move, Madame Rose standing up from her seat and wiping her dress down with her hands, flattening the pleats. “I’d love to talk to you again sometime soon, in fact, I’d love it if you could meet my sisters. They’d be so… gosh, they’d find you fascinating. But I’m afraid I have the congregation waiting for me. You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like.”

“I-I’d like th-aat,” I murmured, without even realising the consequences of my actions. I had just agreed to both parts of her sentence, sermon included in the deal. Then again, I liked her church. To stick around for a short while and take it in didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Madame Rose smiled, pushing her chair underneath the desk and walking to the door. My phone buzzed again as I stood up, and I took it out of my pocket.  At the same time, Madame Rose sighed Jean’s name and shook her head with a small grin.

**From Jean: Krista and super-scary-female-freckles are having a party on Saturday. You up for it?**

**To Jean: Are you implying that all freckled people are scary, or just Ymir?  
**

It didn’t take long for a reply.

**From Jean: No it’s all of you. You’re like some divine super-race of pretty, dotty people. You wanna go and meet some of your spottyclusterfuck bretheren?**

**To Jean: I suppose we are due a meeting to discuss our plans to rule the Earth…**

**To Jean: and speaking of my unity with the kindred spirits, my spidey senses are telling me that you should bring a camera tomorrow. Jussayin. ;)**

I put my phone in my pocket just as the priestess opens the door onto the small but patient group of people sitting in the pews. “Mm-madame R-rrose?” I ask, and she turns around, humming in acknowledgement. “can Jean com-m-mme he-e-ere tom-mmorrow? A-aa-and c-an yy-yyou lea-av-ve the f-ffflow-wers?”

“Of course.” She says, motioning to the small group of people sitting in the ersatz snow.

There wasn’t exact words for what she wanted to say, so Madame Rose didn’t try. I complied and followed her dutifully into the nave as the tiny mass of people watched her, and me, walking up the aisle. I slid into a seat close to the back, pushing away the petals so as not to crush them and attempting to seem as unobtrusive as possible to the others.

Compared to what I was used to, the whole thing was incredibly different. There were no words taken from a book, no passages or psalms. No hymns were sung and there were no sighs of _in nomine patri et fili spiritu sancti_ as we crossed our chests from forehead to sternum and from left to right.

Instead Madame Rose preached, and we all listened to her. I could believe every word, every subtle change in tone that made me believe that her word was law. She strung her sentences together from whatever she saw fit. The message she spoke was spontaneous, yet wonderfully coherent, jigsaw words fitting together perfectly, despite the rough edges of emotion. It was all true, all raw and real. There weren’t historical stories of mythical events. She spoke of the world and the pain and suffering it goes through on a daily basis, telling the small community of people who sat and listened, eyes glazed over with admiration of the tiny powerhouse. She spoke of whatever she felt like, passionately switching her gaze from one person to the next, addressing us all with a violent fervour that was, honestly, inspiring.

I had no clue of how long I sat there for until it ended, and I was left feeling spiritually drained, although in a nice way.

This wasn’t forced. This wasn’t a battle between opinions. Everyone in the room wanted the same thing, and it was refreshing. They wanted to live happily, to know that the small contributions they made to the world had some affect, and they wanted to know that they had helped someone out there, someone they didn't even know.

It wasn’t about pleasing some unknown deity. The Goddesses Rose spoke of were thanked for their starting hand. The people didn’t thank them for their food, for their homes. No. they knew that those things had been gained by the human hand, by the hard work of others and themselves. What Madame Rose taught was the understanding that we are thankful to them only for allowing them to have somewhere such as this, where they can come to terms with life and meet others who need an hour to come to terms with the emotions they have felt.

All of this was an emotional release.

Yes, I get that it sounds cheesy and stupid. But I guess everyone has one of those places. Jean’s was the lake. Madame Rose’s was here.

Here had been close for me too. But not quite. I wasn't sure if anywhere fit that description for me.

I look at my phone, noticing that Madame Rose had been talking for over two hours. It had just flown by.

There were also two new messages.

**From Jean: …You mean freckle powers, not spidey senses. Obviously.**

That was from a few minutes after my last text to him. The one after was from twenty minutes before the end of the speech, and I stood up, stretching the muscles that had begun to stiffen with stillness after sitting almost perfectly still for so many hours.

**From Jean: I cant tell you what it is but Con is planning to bring something on sat and im not sure if youre gonna be ok with it if youre not we dont have to go if you dont wantto**

The lack of punctuation was unusual for Jean, who like me (thankfully. I really hate messy texters) usually stuck to the rules of the English language. It made me giggle to think that he had written it almost frantically, and now I’d kept him waiting for a reply.

Teasing is never a bad option, though.

**To Jean: Aww… you really can’t tell me?**

I looked up, feeling a slight pit in my stomach; guilt for texting in church. No one took much notice of me when the group gathering around Madame Rose, talking animatedly at the priestess.

The reply was quick.

**From Jean: I have been sworn to secrecy. But Sash asked if you could bring pizza. Lots of pizza.**

I stared at the message.

_I was eighteen all over again, sitting at the back of the English classroom, pizza box in the cupboard of the old, single desk of the Catholic school. Whenever Miss wasn't looking, I'd grab a slice and eat it quick, stuffing it in my mouth before she noticed. All I can remember was that it was too good for me to stop picking at, and I wasn't paying any attention to Othello, rather, finding the scribbles in the desk and my pepperoni pizza far more interesting. When she asked me a question concerning the use of 'Moor' and for the first time ever in her class I answered by speaking, the words perfectly fluent, the answer detailed and correct, the whole room just stopped. I grabbed a slice of pizza, eating it in front of the class as their mouths gaped at the quiet kid whom everyone thought was a fag._

_That was how my mother found out everything._

And in that moment, I got it.

**To Jean: oh.... :)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. I'm annoyed this didn't get out for Marco's birthday, but hey! it's out and proud now. 
> 
> Can I just mention how much I hate 50 Shades of Grey. I'm currently attempting to read it around the 92 fanfictions that I have bookmarked, and I can honestly say that it is worse written than most of the unpublished work I'm reading. Seriously, Christian Grey seems to have a permentently hoarse voice, and Ana's conscience is a real bitch. 
> 
> She also can't take compliments, has a terrible taste in men, is the most stereotypical female character in human history, seems completely clueless of any form of BSDM (which is a shame. A damn shame. I mean, she asked what suspension was. Honestly, how many times do you hear that in a normal conversation? Is it not obvious from the FUCKING WORD ITSELF?! It's not hard to misinterpret as something else, and as a character who is obviously supposed to be rather well read despite her lack of sophistication regarding her written communitcations, I thought she would of at least come across one book containing at the very least handcuffs or spanking. Ugh! but no. She hasn't even touched herself. Ever. She's 22 and she has not ONCE gone "hmm, what does this feel like?". Honestly, I'm not one for going all out on that either, but come on. Sometimes you scratch your junk and then it just ends up happening, then you realise fifteen minutes in that it's too late for this and it's kinda getting a bit pointless 'cause now your hand is sore and you're in a really stupid position, and then you stop and go wash your hands because it's disgusting and you don't want to risk sucking your thumb in your sleep with jizzy hands), and everyone is misogynistic. According to Kate, women need to look nice for men because it's what men expect. Yeah, go fuck yourself. No one has to look nice for anyone if they don't want to. 
> 
> Also, the sound of galloping abs and dick Parkinsons and spongy love mountains and her snooch. He also entered her like a lottery. I've spent way too long laughing at this book. God bless Sandra Hill's 'Rough and Ready' and I should probably stop rereading that one scene because I started laughing about it in my English Lit lesson and I had to explain it to the class, then read the whole scene in my infamous fanfiction voice.
> 
> (Also I really hate my summary but I can't do summaries, so I wanna change it but can't. Meeeegh.)
> 
> I need to do something actually productive. 
> 
> Now, my abs, let's gallop away!
> 
> P.S. Daddy-long-legs scare the crap outta me.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	13. Jean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which my horrendous plot flaws are explained slightly and I take out my craving for cigarettes on my writing.  
> Also, they do some bad things and Marco is hot :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible human who wants to flesh out their characters by including details from their past but can't due to the fact that I can't write and I have little experience with everything and I blab more than a politician. 
> 
> This chapter was split into two so next part kinda finishes up on this whole crazy evening. Expect some more answers then, I'm too lazy to give them to you now.

 “JEEEEEEEEEEEN!” Con opened the door to his apartment, eyes already squinted and red as he waved me inside. “Dude, you’re so late we started without you… and Marco had pizza delivered. He’s a cool guy, dude, you gotta marry him.”

“You seriously couldn’t wait ten minutes you little shit?” I slap his back in the usual ‘why the fuck are we still friends’ kinda way, completely ignoring his stupid pot-induced babble. The living room that made up most of his and Sasha’s apartment was filled with a sweet grey hue gained from the light veil of smoke, all originating from the couch where Eren and Armin were sitting and watching Spongebob.

This is what we do, okay? Con and I have a tradition to always get completely blasted whenever we go out together- our true intentions hidden behind smart-casual outfits of white shirts with thin black ties and slightly faded skinny jeans, as they say somewhere probably, '"precision in dress is the neurotic refuge of the perpetually insecure"... And those who like to make others think that they're a better human being than one who likes go get baked'. That day wasn’t an exception, and Con had managed to drag everyone else into his cesspit of vice, along with him and his girlfriend- not that most of us really minded.

Yeah okay. We’re old. Sasha’s thirty two and she’d rather smoke weed and play stoned party games than have boring, middle age person fun. What even is that? CSI and Caesar salad? No thanks. Hell, most of us are only a few years off of thirty and we still go to the same bars we went to when we were still in college. It’s not good. We can’t seem to grow up.

The only reason we weren’t at Ymir’s was because she had found out that Connie was planning on bringing a baggie and had flat out told us that she didn’t want weed at her party… something about deflowering her dear Krista’s innocence, or something along those lines. So now we had been uninvited, and everyone else except for me, Marco, Eren, Armin and Mikky, and of course Heisenberg and that Pinkman kid, had decided that they’d rather get messed up and stuff their faces with Dominoes and play stupid games than get pissed with half of the office on cheap beer and box wine. So yeah, just us in a beige flat with one bedroom and a rather nice kitchen. No drunk couples grinding against the wall or people throwing up in the bathroom, and no pissed fights or mass orgies upstairs, and sadly enough for Marco, none of his freckled friends to discuss the continuation of the superior freckled race. How boring.

“Maaarrrmar is on the baaalconeeee,” Connie teased as I stepped through, waving at Armin who was looking after a totally spaced out Eren, his arms and legs flung around carelessly. (Note to self, get a picture of stoned Eren some time because he looks fucking awful. His eyes go super fucking red and he just has his mouth open, like a fish.) Armin waved back and Eren said something incoherent, and Armin laughed.

“He’s been stoned for an hour and he already thinks Spongebob is a genius.” Eren nods as the blond talks, and I snicker. He’s so out of it. Connie laughs too, the sound uncontrolled, and I think he slumps slightly at the exertion.

“Jamborino!” That’s Sasha, who decided that leaning on the railing of the balcony was a great idea. I walked over and pulled her away from the four storey drop and into a hug, three slices of pizza shoved on top of one another in her hand, half eaten. That’s when I notice Marco, who had decided to stare out at the view, which to be fair was pretty nice.

How? Tell me how, seriously. How does one person manage to go from looking like he’s just stepped out of his shift from one of those ritzy department stores to looking like he should be standing behind the bleachers smoking half a pack of cheap cigarettes and sweating slightly from football practice.

Ugh, fucking how. God damn you Marco, if you read this- fuckedy fuck you, good Sir!

“Hey,” I say, both to Sash and Marco, who turns to look at me, smiling slightly, a lit spliff in his left hand, the cuffs of his leather jacket pushed up his forearms.

“Hi.”

“Not high yet?” I ask, letting Sasha go as she grapples at my back as she tried to tell me that she wanted more pizza.

“Nah, jus’ sstarted.” He takes a drag, handing it over to me, and he leans against the wall. It’s all surprisingly cool and calm.

That’s what gets me stumped about this guy. Marco fucking knew exactly what I’d hell meant almost immediately when I sent the first obscure text. I was just gonna give hints until he finally got the answer, and then Con couldn’t complain that I’d told him and we couldn’t ruin his innocence when he arrived ‘cause he would have guessed it on his own. I thought that he wouldn’t get the pizza thing, but _nooo._

Marco, the fucking freckled fuckable fuck, knew that pizza is to stoned people what ambrosia is to the gods of Olympus. I’d asked how, and he just said **PIZZA,** and that was that.

Of course, Marco just had to go and explain that he’d spent the best part off his last year of school high off of his face and that weed wasn’t a problem at all for him, and then straight out said that he was okay with it. So yeah, he’s not actually innocent at all. Kinda ruined my goodie-two-shoes image- all preppy clothes and bright smile and dorky freckles and fuck.  But eh, I don’t care now that it’s been replaced by a rebel, brooding, badass image. All I can think of is how good he’d look in a leather jacket… seriously. Marco in leather. Marco in assless leather chaps. Marco in tight leather pants…

“You actually gonna ssmoke that?” I hadn’t realised that I was just staring out into the open, and I jump at Marco’s voice. It’s strangely fluent, not like normal. In a way it throws me off.

“Your voice!” I shout without even thinking, and internally, I cry out at how intrusive I am. And that’s without weed. It gets worse.

“Yeah, I know. Can’t hear myself talk sso much. Only ffor a bit. though.” Marco folds his arms across his chest, looking from my eyes to the spliff, which I was wasting by pissing around.

I finally take a drag, breathing in the shockingly cold air after the hit of dry warmth and hold the smoke in my throat and lungs. When Con and I were in college, we’d lock ourselves in the dorm bathroom, turn off the extractor fan and take a massive hit each, then see how long we could hold it for. I’d never managed to last longer than seven seconds without my mouth feeling too dry, forcing me breathe it all back out. Connie lasts fucking ages, but then again his hits are always good, just the giggling, the daze and the sensitive skin. I just tend to want to sing and quench the dry feeling in my mouth. It’s a weird mix.

I try to hand it back to Marco, but he sticks his hand up to refuse it, so I took it back. “ I’m done.”

Sasha shouts from the living room, a large crash and a laugh springing around the flat, joined by multiple voices and the sound of clicking shoes.

“Jean.” It was Mikasa, who looked as stunning as always in a baggy grey jumper that falls just above her navel, black jeans hugging her legs and making her ass look great. I admit that Mik has an awesome butt, okay? It’s at least an eight out of ten, maybe eight-point-five… okay maybe a big fat fucking ten. It’s a great ass, on par with Marco’s anyway. I laughed lightly, the sound slightly higher than normal (thanks weed, thanks sexy Marco imagery and the crazy directions it sends my blood in) and we close the gap to hug, Mikasa only slightly shorter than me now that she was wearing heels. The blonde girl behind her was someone I vaguely recognised. “Oh, hi Marco. This is-“

“Annie,” the other girl interrupted, waving her hand once, face expressionless. “Mik and I work together.”

Mikasa’s a nurse. She really suited it, kind and caring in a way that’s also aloof and straightforward. If I was a patient, I’d want a nurse with her sort of attitude. I’d want news straight up, without the bullcrap, but someone who’d also pass over the box of tissues when I started to cry like a fucking baby. That’s the sort of person Mik is. I couldn’t imagine Annie being the same. She was too stoic for that.

“Yeah. Annie works with deaf-blind patients.”

“Really?” Marco said, voice excited. His hands immediately start to create shapes in the air, sometimes touching his face or chest or arm. It was quick, yet Annie seemed to reply. Her response wasn’t as magically fast, but I still couldn’t catch any solid movement. Everything was a blur.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I asked where ssshe learnt, ‘caus-se of her job. Annie said she took a c-course and that Mikasa took her here sso I’d have someone to talk to. Then I thanked her.”

“You talk normally.” Annie stated, and I think her blank look is broken, eyebrows drifting up slightly. Marco's face practically does a Christmas tree, and I fucking swear there's a light shining behind his head and making him look more wonderfully holy-than-thou than ever before.

“ ‘S the weed. I c-can’t hear myself talk. Later though….” He drifted off, blinking a couple of times, breathing deeply and letting out a deep sigh. It’s fucking hot. Marco turns to me and smiles lightly. It’s faint, but I can just make out that his eyes are slightly pink from the smoke. I couldn’t get over how okay he is with all of this. “You can finish that off, i-if you want.”

I’m too stunned by how hot slightly high Marco is. I can’t really force out words, and I just end up complying with what he said, taking another deep gulp, this one too close to the end, and it burns the back of my throat. Whether Marco’s aware of it or not, he’s staring. I felt like I was being mentally undressed, his lidded eyes sweeping from the floor to my face. It’s definitely not a bad feeling being so obviously checked out. I was glad that it was Marco.

My stomach clenched.

Mikky giggled and said a quick “I’ll talk to you later,” taking Annie by the hand and leading her back inside. She looked back over her shoulder, sending a little wink my way, and I was half tempted to flip her off. I settle for sticking my tongue out at her instead.

I took another breath of the smoke, settling back against the railing as I tilt my chin back and release it into the air. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done this- was it three or four years ago?

All I knew was that I missed it. I’d ended up feeling so old recently.

I kept thinking back to college, the time when Con and I had blazed two joints each and spent the whole night watching a documentary about Kurt Cobain. He mentioned something about what he wanted to do when he left. It was the usual stuff, get a job, get hitched to Sasha and settle down somewhere nice with three kids, two girls and a boy, and have a dog and two cats and maybe a goldfish and a convertible. That was it for him.

I guess I was stupid, or really off my face and totally influenced by the documentary because I started ranting about the 27 Club, and how I wanted to fit it all in before then- write my books and get awards, travel the world, plot Eren’s death, get an awesome house and a hot car, and if anything ever happened I knew I’d lived a good life before it fucked up.

Only I haven’t. I’m there, I’m twenty seven and I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone other than family and friends. I didn’t own my own house, I’ve never been anywhere else in the world other than here or France, I’ve got no solid job and I’m dating someone who I’m too much of a fucking prick to admit that I really like without being shoved into doing it like I'm in high school. So I’ve done nothing on the list, basically.

“You’re b-burning out.”

I turned to Marco, who was still standing on the balcony, looking to the stub that’s dangerously close to my fingers. I felt slow, brain not quite registering that it might burn me if I don’t drop it.

How long has it been?

Then there’s a flash, and it’s gone. I don’t know where I’m looking, but I trail my eyes up, seeing Marco take one last puff, his eyes hazy behind the smoke, and he drops it onto the floor and crushes the embers of the burning tip with his shoe.

He was holding it in, I could tell. His mouth was ajar, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. I wasn’t sure if he had blinked yet, but it didn’t matter, because his eyes look hazed, dark but sparkling.

It might just be me who notices how beautiful his eyes are.

I can’t really remember what happened next. My mind and my body are going two different paces. Normally I start off strong and the world is hazy for a bit. Then I fall and go through the stages.

1)      Euphoric. Just completely fucking out of it and relaxed.

2)      Then I just start laughing. I can’t stop for like ten minutes, and I normally get hiccups ‘cause I don’t breathe.

3)      After that is the dry mouth. I’m relatively normal, but my skin is stupidly sensitive and all I want to do is find a way to stop my mouth feeling dry. Sometimes it can be a panicky stage if I don’t find water.

4)      Distant. That’s the way to put it. I’m there, but I’m not. It’s one of the best ones. I analyse everything, I see everything and nothing strays out of my notice.

5)      Just fucking happy. This lasts for at least two hours.

6)      Tired as all hell. I normally eat a shit ton of pizza and then fall asleep somewhere stupid, normally half naked and with a dick drawn somewhere on my body.

Right then, I’m in the smack bang centre of Stage 1. When Marco took my hand it felt ridiculously warm, like his hands had been held under boiling water, and I can feel every dip and curve along his skin. There’s a scar on his right hand on his ring finger, just above the knuckle and it raises up rather than dips. His nails are really short, like he bites them, but they’re really round and not jagged. The pad of his thumb is smoother than the rest of his fingertips. The rest have really strong loops and whirls. The thumb doesn’t have that.

I can notice all of those things, but it isn’t sinking in. I knew that Marco was really close, his mouth still parted as he holds in that final hit. He hasn’t breathed it in. It’s waiting.

Then my lips feel the same burning heat and I hummed against it, my mouth parting at his tongue. I let it in, it felt nice; warm and wet, but I could feel that it’s slightly rough under the coating of smoky sweetness. He breathes the smoke back out, and it fills my mouth and without thinking I swallow.

There’s a word for doing that. I couldn’t think of it though. Perhaps later.

He pulled back and I breath then let go. It puffed in Marco’s face. He blinked.

Marco looked really good.

He’s so beautiful, like the sky. Did I realise that before?

“I like your freckles.” A distant voice told him.  I think I said that. I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t really think that I said it. But Marco’s still really close, and he’s looking at me like I said it.

I look at his lips. He’s biting them, no, chewing them. There are a few freckles on the pink skin. It’s not just the one from before sitting in the middle of his bottom lip, but two sitting under the arches of his Cupid’s bow, and one more just on the corner. Before I realised it, I had my finger on the one at the centre of his bottom lip.

It’s flat, soft. It’s a mark, not different in anything other than colour. It breaks the pink with a dark splodge. There are four dotted on his lips, and I poke them all. Marco laughed.

“That was quick.”

I hum, continuing up his face, onto his right cheek.  Quick for what?

Oh yeah. I’m high.

… Where am I?

That’s right. Marco’s freckles. He laughed again. It sounded really nice, like low and soft. But sort of rough. It took me a few seconds to realise that that was probably from the smoke. He doesn’t stop laughing, even as I carry on up his face, poking every freckle, even the one that sits directly under his eye.

Marco flinched back, shutting his eyes and wiping his hand over his face.

Then he looked back. His eyes are pretty red now.

“You’re so high.” There’s the distant voice again.

“So’re you.” He’s right. I just nodded and continued to stroke the freckles on his cheek. There are so many, and they all sort of pool together at the top of his cheekbone before growing more spaced out on his cheeks, then bunching back together on his nose.

Then I made my way to his eyes, and I couldn’t stop staring.

Marco started to laugh again.

“Y-you look so conf-fused,” he breathed, and his eyes shut. I whined, leaning my head against his shoulder, and he continued to chuckle at my expense.

It sounds really good, y’know, when someone laughs and you’re leaning on them. You feel the breaths and the vibration, the heartbeat. It’s nice, like you’re supposed to hear it like that. Everything about it is warm.

I didn’t even mind that he was laughing at me for being such a weird fucking human being. I get it, I really am fucked up sometimes. Although at that point I’m probably 80% drugs and 20% ‘Marco looks hot and damn I can’t stop staring at him or finding any excuse to touch his face’.

I’m still leaning on his shoulder when the short Stage 2 kicks in, and I’m laughing with Marco. We’re both still on the balcony, giggling at fuck all.

Everyone else is inside and warm with Marco’s pizza and the Scrubs box set Connie bought for Sash's birthday last year.  We’re cold and out of our minds, laughing at something that doesn’t exist.

It’s Marco who stops first, wiping his eyes and trying to catch up on the breathing he’d missed out on. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, and I noticed that he was shivering slightly, heartbeat sped up, radiating heat.

I just carry on for a little bit, letting his warmth radiate through my chest. I was still laughing, although I could tell it was slowing, the signs of fatigue and lack of breath starting to show. Without realising it, I start to hiccup in between the bouts of explosive chuckles.

Marco took my hand, leading me inside. “ ‘S ‘cause it’s cold.”

He’d noticed, dragging me out of the cold to help ease the annoying jumps in my breathing. I think I hear Con shout to a singing Eren, who held onto Armin with one arm and Mik with the other as he tried to get them to participate in a round of the Pikachu Jukebox favourite, Double Trouble. Both of the non-high people were talking to Annie and ignoring their boyfriend, the blonde woman holding a beer and occasionally sipping it.

“Duuude,” Con shouted from across the room. He was holding two guitars, and something in me just managed to burst.

“Fuck. You’ve still got ‘em?” I laughed, selfishly abandoning a dazed Marco to grab one guitar, lifting the strap over my shoulder and admiring all of the stickers that were still plastered to the body, hiccuping about three times along the way.

“Hell yeah. Man, we gotta play 8 Things.” He smiled. The guy knows me two well.

“You play?” Marco asks. He looks too fucking good, leaning against the wall, all slick grin and eye fucking and his God damn motherfucking shit-on-a-stick freckles.

I couldn’t even talk. My jaw had decided to take its vacation.

_See you in two weeks, Jean. And I’m taking your Dignity with me. Byeeeee._

“Hell yeah. I mean, come on we studied English Literature at college. We had four fucking hours of lectures a week. What do you think we did? Read Jayne Austen?” Connie laughed, and Sash rushes out of the kitchen as he hits a chord. “Yeah, nah, we got high and jammed.”

He strummed the strings again, Sasha squawking and sitting on the sofa next to Mikasa, gripping her arm.

My mouth started to feel really fucking dry. I headed into the kitchen, hitting the neck of my poor baby on the wall as I went to grab a glass and fill it up.

“Yo Jean, Where’d ya go?”

“Kitchen, you dick.” I laughed, the furry feeling on my tongue starting to get annoyingly fuzzy. I chugged the glass, before filling it up again. “Stage three!”

Con knows.

Stage 3, everybody.

This is the worst one.

Have you ever been out on a really hot day and, low and behold, you’ve run out of your drink, and the next store is fucking miles away? This is kinda like that, except you also don’t have salivary glands, and someone’s put a small furry animal in your mouth, and it’s shitting and pissing in there.

On top of that, you can feel the dust in the air, you can feel the pulse of blood in your eyeballs, and you can feel the floor through your shoes. Even through DMs.

There’s only two ways to cure it. One is to drink water until it stops.

The second one was recommended by Connie, who once had a bad hit and spent three hours with a dry mouth, in that time drinking two Pimm’s jugs full of water, and then started on the trays of ice cubes we kept in the freezer. In a desperate attempt to stop, he rushed down the hall, knocking on the door to Sasha’s flat. She opened it up, and he kissed her.

And that’s the soppy story of how they started.

(By now, you probably think we’re all fucking losers. We are. It’s just now we have jobs. So we’re losers but with money. And we’re probably too old to still be doing this. Young at heart is both too accurate and annoyingly true.)

By the time I’ve downed my fourth glass, I’m sick of it. Connie had spent the past few minutes shouting “OOOH SHIT” at the top of his lungs, and Sash laughed, warning Marco to watch out.

Marco sounded like a really great idea.

I pump out the fifth glass, chugging it down to stop the fuzz on my tongue before storming out to a sea of cheers and claps.

“Fuck yeah, first public kiss!” Connie screams. I ignore him, stripping off the guitar and abandoning it somewhere.

Marco looked somewhere between confused and too hazy to realise what I was about to do. I stormed over, ignoring the catcalls and the laughter. All I can think of is how his tongue had been earlier, how wet it was as it skimmed my lip, and how much I really fucking needed that.

I pushed him against the wall, eliciting a moan that made the others whoop and laugh. I ignored the sounds, concentrating on how to open Marco’s lips so I could steal his tongue, pushing myself harshly against him as I waited for a chance to pass through the clack of our teeth to move further into his mouth. Marco kept it gentle and relaxed- probably too dazed to realise what I wanted. It was super fucking frustrating, so it bit his lip, grinding against his crotch and earning a gasp, a wet blast of hot breath and a chance to claim his mouth.

The others were still whooping, although not as enthusiastically as before. Eren sighed an "ew."

Nothing mattered to me other than the fact that I was violently sucking Marco’s tongue, wiping my own against the warmth, the sweet wetness of the roof of his mouth as he fought back, trying to gain some leverage against me. Marco held my waist, one hand slipping neatly into the back pocket of my jeans, fingers kneading my ass. We kept going, the dry feeling disappearing fast, my kiss relaxing from desperate need to the realisation that it felt stupidly good. Marco had managed to quench the dryness, my mouth feeling comfortable, my skin sated of all excessive feeling from the touch of his hands through my clothes, from his lips on mine.

“Oh my fucking God will you stop?” I pulled away, turning to Connie who was in the realm of somewhere between deep shame and utter horror. “Stage 3 that bad?”

“ ‘S good now.” Marco put one hand around my waist and nuzzling into the crook of my neck as I muttered the words.

He was laughing again, the sound stupidly happy and shaded with embarrassment. If a sound could be personified, this laughter would blush, stained a deep red and breathing heavily.

Of course the others are groaning at how disgusting we both are, but neither me nor Marco seem to care. The Freckled Overlord of all Things Damn Fucking Hot plants a light kiss on my cheek, and I realised that I’ve passed out of Stage 3.

Now, where was stage 4?

Mikasa shuffled herself over on the couch and patted the free space, inviting me to sit down. Connie’s already strumming on his guitar and humming to himself, my old and tattered baby lying on his leg as he stretched against a leather bean-bag.

I take the seat next to Mikasa and Marco sat on the floor in front of me, head lolling between my knees. Without ever thinking I started to stroke my hands through his hair, listening for the soft sigh that meant he was okay with it.

“Dude, I’ve still got my beanie somewhere.” Connie smiles, plucking the strings for the first few notes of Teddy Picker.

“Fuck. If you’d’ve told me I would’ve brought mine.” I grin, twisting the dark curls of hair between my fingers, screwing up the neat parting into the messy bed head I’d seen only a few times and realised I super liked. Mik hit me lightly on the shoulder, wiggling her eyebrows and smirking.

I stuck my tongue out and she mouthed “you’ve got a good one there.” I couldn’t agree more.

It took a moment for me to realise that Con had disappeared, only to come out of the bedroom followed by Sash with seven boxes of pizza and Connie’s infamous hat.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Annie murmured to Mikasa. I couldn’t stop smiling as he plonked the thing on his head, the bars of red, golden yellow and green making him look like a complete twat.

“It’s not the same without the afro, man.” I called as Connie picked up his guitar again and strumming the same few notes.

“Yours wouldn’t be the same without the stupid hair from college,” he retorted.

There was a cough and suddenly Eren was alive once again, his eyes completely fucked up. “Y’still got stupid haaar.”

He slumped back onto the couch at the sound of everyone laughing, Sasha starting to hand around the pizza boxes, squidging up next to Marco so that they could share the five spare boxed between them.

“W-w-what was your hair l-like in college?” Marco asked, finishing the sentence with a large bite of pizza.

“Long.” I replied shortly.

“That’s where we get the stupid name from. He still had it when he started as an intern, and Levi made him tie it up into a pony-tail. Then one day he got so sick of it he called Jean into his office and cut it off. I think Levi keeps it as a trophy somewhere...” Sasha elbowed my leg and threw me a wicked grin, showing all of her tomato covered teeth.

Marco looked pretty fucking shocked, pink eyes wide as he stuffs the rest of the bulking slice in his mouth, grabbing another, looking backwards to give me a confused look.

I laughed, “I’ll show you a picture sometime of when I was in college.”

He nodded, swallowing.

“Where’d you go to uni, Marco?” Armin asks.

Ah yes, trust Armin to actually ask the important questions that, as someone who is actually dating Marco, should probably ask and already know right now. Yeah, no.

“I didn’t.” Marco replies simply, opening the second box and starting on his next slice.

There was a collective cry of “What?!” mostly from me and Armin, but I’m pretty sure Sash choked on her pizza.

I couldn’t imagine it. Marco was too smart for his own good, correcting everyone so perfectly, telling us all off when we do something wrong. He had a better grasp of the English language than the rest of us put together, and he didn’t even have a degree.

“How?” Armin asks simply, vaguely.

The rest of us are intrigued, everyone waiting for Marco to talk.

But he doesn’t. Instead he looks to Annie who continued to watch our conversation with a cold gaze. They catch each other’s eye, and Annie nods.

That’s when the hands start, flying up to make a series of fleeting hand movements, everyone watching the subtle touches and positions.

“He said that he was kicked out of the house when he was still in school, so he started freelancing. The paper offered him a job and he took it because he didn’t have the money for university and he just ended up staying.” She was matter of fact, gaze unfaltering, lacking emotion- a perfect poker face. She took a swig of her beer as soon as she finished her sentence and watched the reactions of the group, as I did.

The rest of us continued our state of surprise, although in different ways.

Connie and Sasha pounced on Marco, asking questions and praising him with wide eyes and flying slices of pizza and greasy boxes. Their normal chaotic atmosphere was only intensified with raucous laughter. That was typically them, typically psychotic in their actions and rough in their delivery and presence.

Armin on the other hand was almost silent, taking a moment to fill his mind with Marco’s silent words. I could see him analysing every word, every glance that Marco made. He asked the important questions, but first he needed to figure it all out and think it through. He stayed a constant yet pressing forced in the background, waiting for the right moment to ask his set.

Mikasa was mostly the same as Armin, although one hand rested on Marco’s shoulder in an almost comforting and motherly way. Her expression showed one of slight concern, giving away the fact that there was more than what she had been told.

Eren opened his flabby mouth and said “whaaaaa?”

I, on the other hand, kept my fingers tangled in the soft darkness of his hair, trailing my hands sometimes to the back of his neck where the skin was warm and soft and the freckles almost matched the colour of his skin. Instead of thinking and participating, I watched.

At that moment I was in Stage 4.

Marco mostly ignored the frantic pleas asking for more information, rolling up another slice of pizza and popping it in his mouth. Sasha was shaking his shoulder, desperately asking as she herself tucked into the next slab of meat and dough. Whilst Sash dominated his left shoulder Mikasa was on the other, warning Con and Sash not to be so rough with him and let him answer their questions in his own time. Armin nodded with her, asking the same questions in fewer and calmer words.

“Why were you kicked out?” They were simple, easy and soft, drifting effortlessly from Armin. His voice was one of quiet persuasion. He never had to raise his voice because a feather-light tone was all it took. Never had I heard him raise his voice, yet if he wanted to tell you off then you certainly knew. Like Marco, his silence could be eerily belittling.

Marco sighed, putting another quick slice of pizza in his mouth- by now I was thinking that he had some serious munchies going on, his appetite more veracious than Sasha’s- and started to use his hands again. They followed different patterns but the result was the same, Annie looking bored, resigned from the whole situation. Yet her frozen gaze lit up with a knowing light. It burst with information.

Annie’s bored expression returned. Her voice lulled in the same monotone drone, but this time licked with a slight tinge of a slur. “He smoked weed before class and ended up sassing a teacher, then admitting to his very religious family that he was gay. His mother kicked him out. The rest you already know.”

The chorus of sighs and mother-hen clucks caused more laughter than anything else, although most of it was on Marco’s part. The group fussed over him, Sasha practically straddling Marco in attempt to give him a hug. My hands strayed to the freckles on the back of his neck again, trailing the distance between each dark mark and mapping their constellations.

“What did you say to her?” Sasha and Armin asked in unison.

Hands moves, the others watching Marco as small smiles grew on their faces. I could only assume that Marco was the cause of that, from where I sat I couldn’t see if he was also grinning.

And then Annie laughed, the sound sweet and girly compared to the image of herself she created.

“You actually said that?” Marco nodded at her question. “Okay, well he said that he never spoke in school, and a teacher asked him a question about Othello and he was high so he started talking. Everyone was pretty shocked and he just sat there and ate pizza in class. The teacher was pissed off. Then some random kid said something about not knowing that the fag could actually talk, and… what was it again?”

Marco signed the last part once more, chucking as he did so.

“Oh fucking hell you… okay the guy said “I didn’t know that the fag could actually talk” and Marco told him that, and I quote directly from Freckles, “I didn’t know that you could stick your head so far up your own ass, but I’m pretty sure you’re stretched enough to make room for my dick too.””

I broke out of Stage 4 in hysterics, taking my wandering hands from Marco to cover my mouth. The rest had done pretty much the same, everyone falling back in uncontrollable laughter. Sasha had rolled onto the pizza boxes, Con was hugging both guitars to his chest, Armin, Annie and Mikasa fell over a sleepy Eren and laughed.

“You’re kidding, you gotta be fucking kidding,” laughed Connie, rolling himself onto the floor with both instruments on his chest. “There’s no way Marco fucking baby Jesus Bodt said that.”

“I-I-I wa-as high!” Marco shouted in return. I laughed, and he turned to me, pure betrayal playing with his features, and he struck a light slap across my knee.

The banter carried on for some time, and we let it. Everyone other than Armin was chemically changed in some way, but even he was assimilated and chatting with everyone else. Then again, his idea of a good chat is talking about the existential crises that people experience, which is about all of what high people talk about.

The only ones not jollying up to Puff the Magic Dragon were Annie and Mikasa, who were both slowly becoming more like teenage girls, cosying up to Eren and Armin and giggling at every stupid fart joke or innuendo with every new beer.

Finally, someone decided to look at a clock. The time was heading on into the first half an hour of the new day, and we all collectively stretched at the realisation.

Sasha was the one to break the sleepy silence. “Think we can crash Ymir’s without her realising?”

“She’d be sober, no, someone probably hit on Krista and she kicked everyone out. I’d rather say here.” Connie had picked up his guitar once more, flicking the notes before settling on the four chords I recognised. “Hey, you up for this?”

I shuffle around Marco, taking up the other guitar and throwing up a knowing smile to the bald man. “You’re going down, bro.”

“Yeah like fuck.” The strumming continued, and I add to the sound, following the same chords with a few whoops and a loud clap.

We carried on strumming together for a bit, bobbing our heads to the rhythm we’d improvised with for a while, stealing glances from each other to check when we wanted to start.

“Wait, what’re we doing?” Mikasa calls over the guitars.

“Eight Things.” I shout, earning another whoop from Sasha and Connie, who both know how this goes down. “We’ll show you how it works.”

Collectively, the three of us start singing as loudly as we possibly can, Con totally out of tune and me not much better. _“Eight things, those were eight things. Eight things, those were eight things.”_

“Connie, eight places where you’ve had sex with Sasha.” I said. Everyone laughed as Connie choked quickly and Sash squealed. We cycled through the eight bars once more before ending up back at the beginning as the laughter died down and Con began to sing badly.

_“I have sex with Sasha in our bedroom.”_

“ONE,” Sash and I shout in the gap between bars.

_“I have had sex with Sasha in a tent.”_

“TWO!”

_“I’ve had sex with Sasha in the back of our car.”_

“THREE!”

 _“I’ve had sex with Sasha in Kent,_ that’s in England like-

“FOUR!” The whole group is finally starting to get how this works, joining in with the counting.

_“I’ve had sex with Sasha in a public toilet.”_

“FIVE!”

_“I’ve had sex with Sasha in a tree.”_

“SIX!”

_“I’ve had sex with Sasha in Starbucks.”_

“SEVEN!”

_“I’ve had sex with Sasha at Jean’s…. flat.”_

“Hey, no wa-“

 _“Eight things, those were eight things. Eight things, those were eight things.”_ Connie and Sash broke through, the others finally getting the hang of what we’re supposed to do. It’s not a difficult game, just something stupid and ridiculously hilarious when stoned or drunk.

“Only the people with guitars have to sing their eight things, it’s tradition. Sasha,” Con asks, “eight foods that you’d eat even if they were mouldy.”

There was a collective ‘ew’ as Sasha started on her list, each time all of us ending with a shout of the next number. She waited until the start of the four chords before reciting her list along with the tune. “Cheese, salami, ham, tomato soup.”

“FOUR!”

“Er, ice cream, beef, bacon, noodles.”

The chanting of the chorus started again, getting more raucous than before. Faintly, there was a knock on a wall but we all ignored it, or didn’t hear over our cat calls.

“Time for a newbie, I think,” pondered Sasha, looking Armin straight in the eye. He gave out a squeak, all of us laughing at how stupidly adorable he sounded. “Eight things you say when shooting your load.”

For a moment I stop playing guitar, looking at Armin, whose face had gone bright red.  We gasped with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, the innocence in his eyes rising up as though it needed to protect his untainted soul.

Sasha just smiled. “You can’t back out, sweetie. Go ahead.”

I started back up on the guitar at the end of the jingle before starting again. Armin took a deep breath. “FUCK!” He shouts.

“ONE!” we return just as loudly. Embarrassing eight things are easier to deal with when both parties are having a shouting match, or said over unexpected laughter.

“AARGH.” We carry on with the counting as Armin continued to make noises, “MMYAGH, SHIT, OH MY GOD, WHAT DO I SAY NOW?”

“SIX!”

“NO I DIDN’T MEAN THAT AH NO OKAY UH, ER… I’M CUMMING?!”

“SEVEN,” we laughed, surprised that he had actually said it at all.

“FINISHED!” Armin exclaimed as he flung his arms into the air, Mikasa and Eren praising and comforting the poor man who looked like our defiling of his innocence had aged him by ten years. No longer was he a sweet kid, but a man. We were probably the ones to ruin his youth.

_“Eight things, those were eight things. Eight things, those were eight things.”_

“Okay Mikasa.” Armin composed himself, taking a deep breath. “Eight things you’d name a really ugly cat.”

“Justin Bieber.” 

I stopped playing again, leaning down to try and stifle my wheezing laughter into the back of Marco’s head. In fact, we’d all stopped, taking in how perfect it was. it just rolled from her tongue like she'd known she was going to say it all evening. It got me.

“Oh God okay, one,” Connie said for us. He carried on playing as me, Sasha, Armin, Marco and Eren all got caught up in the whirlwind of the daze and the glow as well as Mikky’s dry humour. Annie even cracked a tiny smile.

“All of the members of One Direction, Tony Abbott, Robin Thicke, Bagpuss, Geoffrey, Jean Kirschtein,” Mikky threw me an evil look, “ and Shit-Kitten.”

 _“Eight things, those were eight things. Eight things, those were eight things.”_ I started up my guitar again. The numbers were dwindling, only half of the group left to be asked questions.

“I guess it’s inevitable that someone has to ask you Jean, so I’m gonna do it.” She pauses. “So are you and Marco an item?”

I felt Marco tense as he rested between my legs head unmoving in lap, my hands still carrying on with the chords. It felt natural again after so long. Everyone else teased with long 'ooh's. “We’re… I uh-”

Smooth, Kirschtein.

“Good. Eight ways to ask Marco out. And you have to serenade him with your guitar.”

Sasha whooped, dragging poor Marco up from where he was sitting, swaying slightly with the quick movement.

“P-ppass m-mme a slice, ple-ee-ease Sassh-sha.” She handed a slice of pizza up to him and he took another bite, finishing it quickly.

“Okay, Marco stand by the bean-bag,” Mikasa pointed to exactly where she wanted Marco to be, and he complied, “and Jean you kneel.”

“I’m not fucking kneeling.”

“You’re fucking kneeling. Get on your hands and knees and grovel like a lil’ bitch.” Mikasa shuffled herself around, reaching over everyone else on the couch with heeled shoes to push me off with a snicker. Sighing, I let her. I slipped off the fading leather and onto the floor, landing on my shins before readjusting my guitar and shuffling over to sit somewhere underneath where Marco stood.

He looked down, face flushed with embarrassment, awkwardly smiling. He mouthed “I’m sorry,” as everyone started singing the main chorus again as they waited.

“Giddey up horsey!” Sasha squealed, clapping along with the guitar playing.

“I have to think of something first.” I called back, trying to think of what to sing…

 _Oh shit. I have to sing._ I'm not exactly Brendon Urie.

I looked up to Marco. “Okay, you ready?” I asked, and he blushed further. I grinned widely, changing what I played to a different tune that matched Connie’s base line and waited for the whole thing to start again.

My breath was ragged, everyone watching as I lifted my right knee so one foot lay flat on the floor, my other leg resting on my knee in a way that made me look as though I was proposing with a guitar. Mikasa and Armin whooped, the singing gone as they waited for me to start, everyone expectant. I was halfway between shitting myself and cloud nine as I looked at Marco, who was somewhere the same.

I forced myself to think of something to say, starting with the thing proposed to me as a starting post. _“Hey would you like to go out with me?”_

“ONE!” Laughter interrupted their counting. Marco looked down at me, his eyes wide and bright. The burnt with shock, the low lights glinting and making them look stupidly adorable. I took that as my next inspiration.

_“You’re a really great guy and you’re eyes are so pretty.”_

“TWO!”

He rubbed his lips together, biting the bottom one in an awkward smile. I remembered how much I needed to kiss him in Stage 3, how it had been so ridiculously sloppy and in so many ways it was perfect. I loved watching him flush every time, like he’d never done it before. That wasn’t something I could ever get tired of. _“I want to be yours and I wanna kiss you.”_

“THREE!”

_“And if you say no I don’t know what I’d do.”_

“FOUR!”

 _Ah, shit,_ I thought to myself. I couldn’t think of where to go next. So I started with the absolute obvious. _“I know that this is cheesy, but you’re really hot.”_

“FIVE!”

 _“And I want you to know that I like you a lot.”_  My face was burning hot after I finished, and when I looked to Marco, so was his- mouth slightly agape with shock. He breathed out heavily, shoulders shaking as he did so.

“WOOH YEAH, YOU GO HORSEFACE!”

 _“So come on_ mon ange _please say okay.”_

“SEVEN!” Marco covered his mouth with his hand, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head slightly. Sasha poked him with her leg, squealing again. It was a good thing. I couldn’t stop smiling as I looked at him.

 _“Just say it now and I can be your…_ bae? Oh my fucking God I said bae.” Shaking my head, everyone else whooped and before I even realised, Marco was hugging me over the guitar, his head in my neck, hair tickling my cheek. “I’m a bae apparently.” I laughed into his ear as everyone clapped, and someone wolf-whistled.

“Bae’s g-good,” he whispered back, kissing the base of my neck with a smile playing on his lips.

_“Eight things, those were eight things. Eight things, those were eight things!”_

Sasha started laughing over the singing. “You said bae!”

“I know and it makes me cry inside.”

Sash threw a pillow as Marco and I, both tangled up on the floor. “Get the fuck up and play the game you big homos.” I pried my hands from between the cold wood of the guitar and Marco's warm chest, sticking my middle finger up at her, earning the same in return. “I wanna finish this game and order more pizza.”

Marco shuffled himself back and offered his hand to help me up- God damn fucking gentlemanly shit right there, ten out of ten would pizza again. I took it, putting the body of the guitar to the floor to help me stand. We moved back over to the couch and I sat on the arm rest, letting Marco take the seat.

“Ready for another round?” I asked. Everyone screamed their answer and Con and I took back to the guitars, strumming the chords as we sung the line.

Of course, everyone expected me to ask Marco next, Mikasa looking between us and smiling. Instead, as I reached the time to ask my question I teased for a little while before ending up on Eren. I ended up asking his favourite sex positions and getting such beautiful answers as “the coat-hanger” (I knew he was into bondage, no-one can say I didn't notice the thin rope burns on his wrists, the kinky shit) and “on the bed”… but then again that’s this game. It’s ridiculous and you say what comes to mind, which is why being in Stage 5 when playing it is the best.

I knew I was grinning like an idiot, because so was everyone else. None of us could stop smiling, breaking out in fits of giggles as a lamp fell off of a table and Mikky blamed it on Sasha’s fart, and when Con decided to dare Armin to sing Technologic as he picked up the speed on his guitar and the poor man was left a spluttering, slightly drunk mess. This is what we preferred to parties. We just spent the night acting stupid and totally ignoring everything else, including the sound of Con’s neighbours almost breaking down the door.

Who knew what time we finished at. By the time Eren had completely slipped into sleep and Annie had decided to head home, we’d already sat around and listen to more Gorillaz, The Killers, and obscure rappers than anyone could shake a stick at. Hell, we’d even danced around to Rack City with our newly ordered pizza, bundling together in the crowded living room to bounce up and down as we screamed ‘bitch’ more times than you could shake a stick at.

It must have been three in the morning before Armin and Mikasa decided to see if Ymir’s was still happening, heading out together, slightly drunk but still passable and able to get there. They abandoned their boyfriend who Sasha promised was okay for him to steal their couch for an evening, and already had done, a blanked draped over his legs. That left me and Marco, and Sasha and Connie, polishing off the thirty-second pizza and listening as Eren snored like a lawnmower.

“What about you two?” Connie asked. “You gonna stay here?”

 I shrugged, picking off the capers and throwing them in the box. “I don’t know. You don’ exactly have much room.” There’s a moment of silence before Marco elbows my ribs, the last part of the slice he was eating just stuffed in his mouth. He looked like an adorable freckled chipmunk.

He swallowed it, breathing heavily. “M-m-my pl-l-llace is-sn’t fffar awa-ay.” He said, voice now back to normal.

Throughout the evening, I’d realised I actually preferred his stutter. It just reminded me too much of him, and hearing his voice- whilst still stunning and smooth- didn’t quite sound like him. Marco had a way of making the sounds that should sound so broken absolutely easy to listen to. I liked it. For some reason I found it endearing and I definitely preferred it over the artificial normalcy.

I smiled at Marco, “sure.” For the billionth time that evening, Sasha squealed, Eren grunting and rolling over on the couch. “Do you wanna go now… or?” I asked.

Marco just shrugged back. I took that as an ‘I don’t mind.’

“Real helpful. Seriously.” He giggled, head leaning back onto the seat of the couch; we had slipped off of onto the floor earlier and couldn’t be bothered to get back up. Connie was flailing his eyebrows around, chucking us a wicked grin.

“Yeah, go back to Marco’s and do the frickedy-frack.” He laughed, “I’m not letting you borrow our room. It's already booked.”

The look on Marco’s face was actually a classic, eyes wide as he gave the half-Mexican Magneto an incredulous look, hair now far from the perfectly parted curls it had been earlier. The dark tangle was sticking up in all directions, the whole thing closer to bed-head than the original hair style. The closest thing I could compare him to was an overly tired teacher, only missing the sexy glasses. It didn’t take him long to make Con stop laughing with his stare before he turned to me. “W-we don-n-n’t ha-“

“No it’s fine. Connie’s being a dick.” Connie gasped in fake shock, and I ignored him. “you wanna go now? ‘Cause I’ll hit the tired part soon and then you’re gonna have to carry me.”

“-Kay.” Marco stood up, stretching his arms above his head, white t-shirt rising up slightly to show a small slice of his damn fine navel, tiny little snail trail peeking over the dark jeans. Sasha caught me starting, wiggling her eyebrows along with her boyfriend and I glared, standing up myself. “R-rready?”

“Yep.” Sasha sat herself up to give me a lazy hug, Connie reaching out his fist.  I bumped it over Sasha’s shoulder, her arms clinging around me like a backpack.

“Do the do with freckles.” She whispered in my ear. “Use as many quotes from Napoleon Dynamite as you can.”

“Use Jurassic Park,” I whispered back knowingly. 

“Good one.” She said, pulling away to give Marco a hug.

 We waved them goodbye, walking out of the door and I shut it behind us. It didn’t take long for us to walk down the stairs to get back onto the street.

It was quiet, the only sounds thee buzzing of distant, inner-city traffic. The lights were still on along the road, mapping out the line of cars. Mine was still parked, but I didn’t want to risk driving it at this time at night. “Lead the way,” I said and Marco jogged down the stairs to the pavement, starting to head right.

Quickly, I followed in silence. There wasn’t anyone around, the whole city seeming weirdly still. Neither Marco or I talked, but that left me to think, firstly of Napoleon Dynamite quotes to spring on Marco and see if he recognised them, and secondly because he hadn’t answered my question earlier.

I sidled up next to him, brushing my hand lightly against his. He took it, wrapping his fingers around mine and looking to me, smiling gently.

If it wasn’t Marco, I would need confirmation. But that was it, no words or anything, just reassurance that the ‘Awkward Introduction to Dating Jean Kirschtein’ had been successful. I mean, fuck, we were holding hands and Marco was taking me back to his flat. He hadn’t kicked me out on my butt when I sung to him like a cat in heat.

I was dating Marco. Marco was my boyfriend.

Advfkgugahg.

Without even thinking, I planted a kiss on his cheek and watched him smile as he lightly squeezed me fingers. We knew, and we didn’t have to say a word. It was kinda nice to think that. We didn’t need to talk about it and get all nervous and self-conscious, and we didn’t have to do the whole “let’s talk out our feelings” bullshit. We just did it without a fuss.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I took it out, talking a small moment to adjust my eyes from the dim light to the screen.

**From Human Dustbin: got it @ ‘hold on to your butts.’ Now hes wearin his dino onesie and sayin ‘t-rex don wana be fed, he wana hunt.’**

**From Human Dustbin: yors betta be gud.**

**To Human Dustbin: You wanna play me?**

It took a few seconds for her to reply to my quote, Marco leading me down another road.

**From Human Dustbin: Ugh. Idiot!**

I smiled. That was two less quotes to work with. This was gonna get tricky...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2000 HITS. WHAAA?! Yeah, super freaking coolie bug. Thankyouthankyouthankyoutnahgaoihh tears ahoy!!
> 
> This whole freaking things is super long I don't care. Psh. I only had to split it into two chapters and change to perspective. It's also based on three things.
> 
> The first is the whole pizza thing, which is literally just me. When I was about 14 (ah so long ago! The things I did then, the horrible, horrible time I had! Many memories) my friend and I were in a Latin and Classics class together, because that was the type of school we went to- I basically spent four hours a week learning about a dead language and how to write it like Mary Beard- and every lesson we'd buy the cheapest chocolate we could find along with two bottles of coke and just spend the whole time hiding underneath our desks and eating and listening to Three Days Grace and Panic! One day I brought in four boxes of pizza, the teacher found out and I threw a slice at him... it was justified. He said I was a useless human being and wouldn't amount to anything and I went all cuckoo-bananas. That basically sums up school for me.
> 
> The second thing is my HORRIBLE experience with weed, which totally inspires Jean's whole six stages. The first time I tried it I got fucking nothing and I was so pissed 'cause my friend was off of his face and there was me looking after all of the drunk people... because LOW AND BEHOLD I can also down a whole bottle of vodka and still be completely freaking fine because YAY IRISH BLOOD. But yeah, second time around I wanted to curl up and die. I spent twenty minutes in the bathroom drinking straight from the tap, and afterwards (here I have to explain that I don't kiss anyone at parties, ever) I ended up kissing this girl whose boyfriend was in my Bio class- whoops. He's okay with it though, he fist bumped me so it's cool- because my mouth felt all stupid and horrible, and I was getting super frustrated because she didn't kiss hard enough for my liking... not a dignified moment for either of us but we cool now. After that I complained that my eyeballs were going to explode and fell asleep on a deflating air bed whilst watching Kuroko no Basket.
> 
> The third thing is 8 Things! If you haven't heard of this, play it the next time you get drunk/ have eaten half of the sweets in your local shop/ sitting around in a park and want to annoy someone with abnoxious laughter and many sexual references *disclaimer: also good for confusing asexuals ^^ tried and tested* If someone plays music it's even funnier, but you can play without and it's just the stupidest game but it's my spirit animal so yup. If you're wondering what tune I picked it's based off of this video [(X)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLbTDRX0IMM) because it's the only one I've found that has a tune similar to the one I usually use when playing this game.
> 
> And trust me, the whole Marco and weed thing is true. A friend with anxiety issues that lead to her being unable to talk to certain people was given weed as a treatment but she turned it down after a trial period. It's not the smoking stuff, but the concentrated form in a pill, and it lead her on to take grass so she stopped. But people do that as a real thing, and I want Marco to have literally tried EVERYTHING. 
> 
> So that's my excuse for this train-wreck of a chapter.
> 
> I also want to let you know that I'm slowing the speed of this fic down to start another one which will be uploaded pretty soon, to uploading a chapter every ten days or so. It's getting more and more difficult to not get distracted doing Stutter because I have to think about it constantly... what's going to happen next, what route do I want to take it down... and I want to not be able to have to. I'm also suspecting that this is gonna be super long (there's another twelve planned at the least, and if only that then there's gonna be a few shorter fics alongside this one) so I don't want to burn out and start hating it because that's the worst. I've seen it happen to a few pieces and it's a real shame.
> 
> The extras are going to be a small series of one shots and a multi-chapter JeanMarco crossover between SNK and In the Flesh, which if you haven't watched it, do. The show will break your heart and build it back up and break it again because CANON QUEER ZOMIBES WHAAAA?! Yeah, but here's a link to the first chapter of my second if if ya wanna read it [(X)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1860648/chapters/4003941)
> 
>    
> [My Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/luukiead) which I will keep reblogging the ITF masterpost on in case you want a glimpse of the series, just for you lovely people.
> 
>    
> This is long. I'll stop now.


	14. Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, so I'm giving you a present. Enjoy it! (Aka: shite smut.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is bloody long for what it is. Also, you can probably tell of the clear and distinctive difference from when I wasn't feeling the chapter to where I battled against sleeping pills to try and finish it off.
> 
> Plus I beta'd this myself, and badly, so it probably has mistakes which I will fix. Buuuut---- thank you once again to the wonderful dark_cacahuete for being an absolute wonderful dear and helping me with the translations. So many thanks being sent your way.

A warm hand is such a pleasant thing, especially whilst drifting out of the tingling warmth of sensitive skin mixed with the inexorable want to feel heat against the bitter of the early morning.

Truly, it is wonderful. Perhaps returning to the bad habits I’d unwittingly lead myself into was a bad idea, but I couldn’t regret it. Somehow the end seemed too perfect; like I’d suddenly wake up from that moment to find myself lying on the wooden floor of Connie’s apartment, one arm dead from sleeping on it for too long, and my jacket ripped, once again coming to the realisation that I am one of the sappiest people you could ever meet, and the whole tough, black-wearing, motorcycle-riding phase I went through really was just me pretending that, _hey! I can be dark and mysterious too guys, I promise._

But despite the drowsy end to the evening, I knew it was real. My mind could never make up the way Jean would smile languidly into the darkness, the soft frown gone only to be replaced with an earnest yet gentle smile that stuck to his face like a bug to a windshield, never moving, never giving up on the ever-grumpy expression that had seen him even through the laughter and the stupid games and jokes. It was just the smile now, and the occasional line he ran along the side of my thumb that had me automatically return it, sometimes encouraging his beguilingly slow pace with an encouraging squeeze to his fingers- and if I felt he was being super slow, I’d glance over my shoulder to look at him, only to see him staying back.

The eternal trek back to my apartment filled was with sweet moments like that, accompanied by the rumbling cries of my desperate stomach. It heaved at my gut, permitting a slow sigh that stung at the thought of how slowly we were moving and how _you have five pizzas in your freezer Marco, and YOU CAN EAT THEM ALL… Do it! Do it! Do it! Do-_

If Jean hadn’t noticed that I was a chronic munchie, he’d learn pretty soon.

I’m still not exactly sure of how I learnt of my unrequited love for pizza, but I figured it was in the midst of my hazy high school years- between the time my doctor had tapped his nose lightly and mentioned “a… homeopathic method, which may help you…”, and “Marco, why has my debit card been completely emptied by Domino’s Pizza?”

Pizza was to me what the baby Jesus is to the Pope, or what a sunflower was to Van Gough. It was my soul purpose for getting up in the morning, the one reason I’d enjoy any classes other than English, the singular cause that lead me to stumble haphazardly into a job I had at first hated but undertook to prove everyone wrong, to prove that I could do something that had more of an impact than any other person despite of who I was, despite the shame that was placed upon me without due consent or understanding.

It is my muse, but only when I’m soaring with the American eagle and baby angels- and that hadn’t been for some time before that evening. I’d found other things to bide my time by, eventually finding the habit filthy. Of course, sometimes I'd return or dip just for a short time to recapture the days I’d spent in a bubble, excluded from the normality of the world. That night was one of them, another layer on the same reaction to life. Pizza is, strangely, rather a large part of that.

Until the night I finally decided to stop, pizza and I had remained good friends with occasional wonderful yet regrettable benefits. We had decided to call it off a while ago, to relinquish our filthy habits and take a new and exciting path… alone. Sometimes, one of us relapsed, and we would crawl together and watch a bad horror film and while away the hours eating, or being eaten. Only rarely, though. Very much so. I’d recently found something else that would most likely be able to cope with the constant sobbing of my film watching ways, and pizza- my dear, sweet pizza- was falling to the proverbial wayside faster than my faith in 21st century adult novel writers.

But as soon as I reached my front door and discarded my shoes, my example followed by Jean, it became a bit of a chore to choose between the two driving forces that came to play. On the one hand was my beloved four cheese pizza with an extra helping of chilli, sitting lovingly in the below freezing drawer, waiting for me to unwrap it from its plastic confines, and heat it up until it crisps and the smell sticks to the kitchen no matter what I do to try and clean it away. On the other was a very handsome man who had asked me to be his boyfriend mere hours earlier, and I still hadn’t had a real chance to, for want of a better phrase, suck face? Play tonsil tennis? Do unsanitary things that you once hoped you wouldn’t get cooties over? One of those delightful yet disgusting options, take your pick. Still in a slight haze they both sounded wonderful, yet only one left my breath to hitch and only one touched my stomach with fluttering fingers.

I, however, understood greatly my complicated relationship with the popular Italian food. I just hoped Jean understood that our relationship had one unforeseen member, and he would accept it into his life as much as I accepted it into mine. Would he be open for a threesome between him, me and a Texas BBQ? How would he feel about me eating a slice of Hawaiian from his wonderfully angular collarbones?  Could we slowly make our way down an American Hot, joining lips at the centre where the pepperoni connected us in a union of spicy grease and stringy cheese?

Quite honestly, at that point those ideas were the soul reason I didn’t collapse on the couch as soon as I walked through the door to my apartment, the cat mewling loudly at my late entrance and unstated visitor.

“You have a cat?” Jean immediately let go of my hand to pick up the drooling beast, her eyes scanning his face with sheer hatred. “What’s its name?”

“S-ssc-cout.” I replied, immediately hopping into the kitchen and turning on the oven. Flinging the freezer door open, I plucked out three of the five pizzas, one a Vegetarian, the other two a strange concoction of mystery-meats, peppers and red onion with a generous dash of chilli. I put them on a separate tray each, flicking the switch to twenty minutes and shutting the door and walking out into the main space of the flat, which is somewhat a mixture of a dining room and a living room with a wall in one corner to separate it from the kitchen slightly.

Jean sat at my book-hidden table, Scout clambering on his shoulders from the table as she tried to claw what she probably thought was a small furry animal sitting on top of Jean’s head, slowly tapping the bouncing ashen hair underneath her flat paw.

“It’s crazy.” He laughed, I nodded at him and clicked my tongue to divert the attention of the grumpy cat, who had Jean’s hair tangled in her claws as she tried to pull away. “Ow… ow-ow okay yeah, ow.”

There wasn’t much I can offer in help; only a sympathetic look that badly hid a suppressed chuckle and my attempts to try and pull the yammering cat from his hair. I walked over and lifted the cat from where she sat with her back legs on his right shoulder, both front paws almost scalp deep in thick, dusky knots.  One of my hands and both of Jean’s came to his hair in an attempt to try and pull the cat away as we fumbled our fingers around her claws, and Jean laughed, looking up to me as I attempt to help.

His eyes were pretty blown still, a solar ring around the darkness yet it didn’t seem to bother him, nor did the redness that always happens with me touch is eyes. It’s subtle, soft, and strangely sweet in the barely lit room and I couldn’t bring myself to look away, our gaze interrupted only by the whirring light of the fan oven and the faint intake of breath Jean sucks before talking.

“I need to piss.”

All of the romanticism shared in those short moments dies with four words, although laughter prevailed along with the struggles of a mewling cat that I soon set to the floor along with the sound of her indignant sneeze. Jean, however, looked mildly confused by my laughter and I just ignored it, pointing towards the door that led to the bedroom- the bathroom being squeezed into what I assumed was actually was supposed to be an area for storage until they realised the already cramped apartment needed somewhere for the occupant to relieve themselves. So no, the apartment wasn’t exactly designed for long-term living.

“No offence but my place is a shit ton nicer than yours. You’ve still got boxes everywhere,” there’s a creak from the bathroom door and the muffled sound of a box being pushed heavily across the floor, “seriously Marco, have you just been living out of boxes for a month?”

“Th-here just b-books,” I reply. Scout crawls around my feet and throws a confused gaze up to me. “It’s o-oonly tempor-r-rrary u-until I find som-mewhere nicer.”

A gruff sigh emanated from the bedroom alongside the sound of a zip… and then the sound of water.

It took me a few moments to register what it was.

“Um, Jean?” I asked, my face most definitely heating up, “c-could you cl-llose the ba… the door? I can h-hhear you pee.”

There was a moment of silence. “Oh fuck,” Jean spoke lightly, “uh… okay well I can’t reach it from where I am so I guess I can just talk over it for a moment or… um okay I’m done anyway now so-“

“Seriously?” I laughed, not quite believing what was happening.

“Come on. We’re going out now, you should get used to this.” The zip sounded again, then thankfully the tap, flush and the drone of the emersion heater, his voice picking up so that it could be heard. “See, I’m good. I even washed my hands. Honestly, how many guys do that after they piss? I’m practically the one percent here. You’re a lucky guy to have someone that washes their hands after peeing.”

 “It’s no e-excuse.” I looked to the door, following Jean as he stepped out of my bedroom.

“Well I’m sorry. I forgot. Look, you can even check that I washed my hands,” he walked over, hands out in front of him, palms flat. “Smell my hand Marco, you can smell the soap.”

A hand landed in my face. I could, indeed, smell soap. That at least was comforting, only overtaken by the fact that I knew what had been in those hands only moments earlier.

“See? I’m totally clean. Just because I forgot to shut the door doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy- hey!,” I couldn’t stop laughing, collapsing onto the chair with an unsightly snort. “You don’t get it, damn it Marco. Seriously, I washed them… come on you could practically eat off of my fucking hand it’s that clean.”

The hand returned, smushing my nose flat against the centre of his palm, and I couldn’t exactly help how my teeth grazed the heel of his hand as I laughed. I couldn’t stop Jean when he decided to wipe his hand up my face, causing my upper lip to suction onto his soap-scented skin.

I really couldn’t help that.

“You can stop kissing my hand, dork.”

I stick my tongue out into the centre of his cupped palm, and it retreats. There is no helping the return of Jean’s ‘Shock and Horror’ face, eyes wide- and wider with the iris still not adjusted in the dark.  His mouth is slightly agape at, what I can presume, was probably a bit of decent flirting… all courtesy of the tail end of a high that was dripping away.

Perhaps it was dark then, but the quick smile he flashed at that moment was dare I say it, almost innocent. With gawking eyes, a smile so open and his body rolled into itself and shoulders hunched over choked laughter. His hand was held out in front of him, and he stared periodically between it and me. Jean was buzzing with energy.

Me, on the other hand, could feel my heart slowing. Even through the excitement of my mind I was noting the relaxation spilling through me. I didn’t exactly want it. It just rolled in, despite the fact that I really, _really_ wanted the energy to do what I wanted to do. I leant back against the chair, throwing one arm over the back, grinning at Jean.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “Stop with the face.”

“What face?” I teased, lips pursing under a smile. The frustration on his face was picture perfect.

Jean didn’t look amused. He stalked forward, leaning down to wrap one arm underneath my legs, the other forcing its way behind my back as he attempted to pull me up into his arm with a strained groan. “Hrrmngh no God damn it, fuck you. Either you get in your fucking bedroom in the next ten seconds or I will drag you there.”

Laughter wasn’t enough. I just convulsed as Jean attempted to carry me princess style in the bedroom.  Even with an accommodating arm around his neck, he couldn’t manage to get me any further than a few inches from the seat of the chair. He swore, growled and huffed incessantly until finally he gave up, dropping me back onto the chair and slumping himself onto my leg with a sigh. All I could think of was that I was glad he hadn’t put his back out.

“That went better in my head.”

I smile down at him, his nose pressed into my thigh and breath warm as he talked. “I’d l-llike to think it did,” and truly, I did. I wanted him to believe I could be picked up and carried around, ceremoniously  showing me off to no one but himself. He was taking initiative, and I liked it. I liked that he thought he could try and do something sweet, although totally clichéd; because it had me wooed. The fact that he tried had me stumbling over myself, laughing and blushing through his embarrassment just made me want him. If it even could, it made me want him more, to see that over and over, to give him as many opportunities as he wanted to play out the ways he wanted us to be.

Somehow, I stood. Somehow I took his hand through the clutter of emotions spinning a tornado in my head, and I was stuck in the centre, feeling everything swirl around me, bringing the pinnacle back to myself and taking Jean with me.

He was all I saw, all I could feel and sense around me as his hands were cradled in mine and I led him backwards to where he wanted us to be, past the unpacked boxes, past the cat and through the door. Jean kicked it closed behind him, never taking his eyes from mine, beaming. I was beaming too, and I couldn’t look away.

Words cannot fully describe how you feel in that state of mind. The typical phrases describe it rather well; they are your centre, they are the other half, you cannot take your eyes from one another, or even the one about nothing else mattering but the two of you. Clichés are clichés because they are true, and no matter how many times the world decides that they are so overused it hurts that they are the best description. Because all I wanted to be was with him, I only wanted to feel his skin, to feel him breathe and move with every caress, and I wanted to do the same. I wanted to react to his touch, to lean into his fingers as they graze my cheek, kiss his wrist as it flits to my hair. I do to him what he does to me. We mirror; chests flushed, hands never passing the skin of our necks. We just feel. That is all we want. We memorise with our hands, because that seems the most intimate thing to do. We don’t need lips or wandering hands. All we want is to know that we were here, and I was looking into the tear-pricked eyes that never spilled over, trying to make it go away so the dark stars flecked through the sun; an eclipse.

My hands begin on his cheeks. I start with his cheekbones, taking in the sharp angle that tapers into the gentle lip of his nose, running my index fingers over the dipped bridge to meet in the centre of the clear peak before ghosting them over his eyes; fingers skimming his hairline, dripping with the hairs that sit over his forehead. They were soft and tickled the backs of my hands. Then I float.

I feel him do the same. We block our vision, break the contact that pulls back together as soon as our fingers curve along the ridge of our ears. I take in how small his really are, how perfectly the shell graces under my touch. His lobe was soft and I could tell it tickled him as I touched a spot just behind, because his hands lingered for just one moment at the same spot, shivering. Synchronously, we fall away and move along jaws, his sharp and perfect, leading down a delicate neck that bobs and pulses with the throb of life in the tips of my fingers. I could feel breath passing with a hum in and out of his open mouth.

Then we seem to separate our harmony. I can never pull myself away from his gaze, body and mind, and I return there. I see light passing through autumnal trees, the shepherds' delight. I can’t stop myself from brushing his eyelashes free from wet glitter. It felt like downy feathers, and I can’t stop, even as the eyes open and blink with my touch, sunlight free from rain, almost smiling in the glow of night.

His fingers are on my mouth, touching the freckles they had played with earlier. The one sitting at the centre of my bottom lip gets the most attention. He pulled the lip down with his thumb, running fingers over along after the first. Sometimes he caresses the Cupid’s arch, sometimes his finger dips between my parted lips, and I push against them lightly. It gets more frequent. The bottom lip is pressed against his middle finger, slipping further until the pad sits above my teeth, and the lip flicks back up, taking the whole thing deeper into my mouth. I don’t care, I want it there, tickling my tongue and sitting firmly with me. His other hands trails to my hair once again and he revels in the way it tangles, messes up in his hands between the flashes of his vision caused by my hands caressing the slight dark circles under his eyes and feelling the delicacy of his eyelids.

He is the first to break the silence. My small finger brushes against the wings of his bottom lashes and Jean releases a shattered sigh. “God damn you Marco” and the finger is removed from my mouth and put on my cheeks, his eyes flying closer to mine and-

I suppose the universe knows that too much of a good thing ends up spoiling people. Pizza, no matter how much I loved it, was most certainly not a welcome distraction at that moment. I cursed the munchies that had long since passed, and most of me wanted to leave the incessant beeps to just eventually die out. But it was not for the best. I guess now I was glad I didnt leave them to burn, because cold pizza is still pretty good.

“Turn off the alarm,” Jean rushed, and I nod, reluctantly pulling myself away and hurriedly making my way back into the kitchen, pressing the button marked with a fading bell and sighing at the silence as I flicked the temperature back down to zero.

The small walk to the bedroom feels infinite, yet I keep going because there he was, standing, hands in his pockets, looking lost in the tiny space. And I couldn’t stop myself. He had waited. I had returned to him and without even thinking we were drawn. Unmoving, but drawn together.

And I did something I normally don’t do. I swore.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, rushing forward and pulling Jean close. And then we were connected, lips with one another but unmoving in the shock of the moment, my hands in his hair and his arms flailing wildly as he tries to figure out the sudden contact.

We breathe and begin to move. Slowly, just testing the pace we want. It is still forceful- we cannot stop that, delicacy is something we hadn’t mastered yet- but we were even, pulled into a spin that whirled us across the floor until we reached the bed where I fell onto my back and didn’t bother to move. Jean broke away for only a moment, allowing me to shift onto my elbows, to stop him from just collapsing onto me without a second thought. But he returned; lips wet and warm. He moved to the side, pressing his tongue to my bottom lip and swiping up to the top one and opening my mouth, and we just kept going.

I think that was the first kiss we had that wasn’t interrupted or broken apart by accidents. It went on for so long, Jean hovering over me as I lay on the bed, his hands on either side of my chest, mine gripping the front of his shirt as I try to pull him down. He just seemed to know when we need to break apart for a quick breath, and he knew when to change, to do something different that always managed to pull a small noise from me, nothing vulgar, just a deep exhale or a gulp, and I could feel him smirk against me time after time.

Now, I don’t know how many scenes you’ve read in books or seen in movies that have been similar to this, but let me tell you, it’s never just ‘get your clothes off and do things’, especially for a first time. Sloppiness and heated passion do not make for smooth running, nor does a serious overdoes of cheesy dirty talk. Most of the time it's an awkward exchange, nervous compliments.

Having sex, making love, always comes for the same purpose. The outcome never changes no matter how many times a person does it. The act is a contract. It binds people, no matter if they do it once or many times with just one or hundreds. A one night stand is another body learned to your mind, as is someone you have been with for years. The only difference between the two is that one you retrace time and time again until you know it so well you could draw it in your sleep, whereas the other is just quick. You collide and then break away forever. However, natural human nature drives us towards knowledge.

We want to know everything from start to end. That is a reason why we fall in love and bind ourselves into complicated relationships; once you start, you cannot stop, regardless of how embarrassed you are, or how you feel about yourself. Part of falling in love is learning, and every time is different. The first time is just a rough sketch. It’s the beginning, and you can never forget that. No matter how many times an artist will stare at their work, they remember the bare bones of it underneath the pain and beauty and changes of time. A masterpiece is not painted instantly. Pencil outlines the origin again and again to create a foundation for everything else. Then it is filled in, at first with block colour, the obvious undertones and generalisation of character. After that comes the shades, the details that change in light, change over time and flicker with every stroke. You learn their pattern, you know why they appear and disappear under the shadows, why the glint in their eyes shifts at certain things, at certain words and movements. You know it because you have studied for so long, and in the end you have fallen in love with it all, not just with the person you first sketched, but every layer and mistake, everything you are proud of in them, everything you wish you had in yourself.

Layer upon layer is put into love because that is what it takes. Love is an instantaneous attraction just as much as it is something that can grow and flourish; you can fall in love with beauty, it is only natural. However, love is knowing that the beauty is flawed, and the perfection you see in movement and in stillness is only subjective- and you forgive that, adore that. A person rarely believes themselves to be what could be classified as ‘perfection’, yet somewhere in the world is someone who would. It may be instantaneous. It could be like someone opening the curtains after a storm to reveal fresh sunlight. Or it could build on the flutter of the heart that starts at the first words until you drown with every breath, revelling in silly little thoughts, scenarios and lyrics to songs that cause your heart sigh and your mouth to twitch into a small smile that tilts onto your face at the sight and sound of them. And it all begins with the first touch.

The whole world started with a touch of starlight dust, then the pull that didn’t stop until something was born, life was created; until our small universe swims around us and flourishes with every new layer of learning, and we eventually reach centre once more. We are enveloped in the world we have cherished and stay because it is our peace, our home.

And so, we started. We began the process of learning. Without words, fingers began to slip, a shirt with no origin flung somewhere in the darkness. It landed with a thump and we breathed a laugh into each other because, hell, we knew it was beginning.

Jean moved, legs resting somewhere between mine, knees up against my thigh, clothed contact warm.  And then his hands moved, arms pulling up my shoulders so I could sit up, lips still moving together- forceful but slow, ebbing and flowing around one another without a second thought- our eyes closed to allow us to just feel and taste one another.

My jacket was ripped off, my arms pulled from where they had rested against bare skin and flung downwards as the leather was removed. Next came my t-shirt, and we pulled away, eyes opening to stare in the dark. I looked to his swollen lips, and his eyes cast downwards as he concentrated on pulling my shirt over my head.

It got stuck around my neck.

“Damn it,” he hissed. We both went to try and unhook the fabric from under my chin, fingers prying underneath so that if could be lifted over my face. Jean took it, throwing it with considerable force. Then he sighed, “all right then, let’s get started.”

The line wasn’t the best I’d heard. But at least it led in the right direction. We continued, both of us shifting back further onto the bed so that I was resting somewhat the right way. I’m pretty sure it was more diagonal than ‘head on the pillows, feet near the bottom’ but it couldn’t really be helped.

My hands trailed across him, taking in how soft he was; his skin, of course, but not just that. He wasn’t angular. Thin, yes, but not sharp. A dusting of sandy chest hair over his chest, disappearing over the soft swell of his stomach and then reappearing under my fingertips as a thin trail that disappears behind his rumpled jeans.

I sat with my legs stretched in front of me, knees slightly bent with him above, kneeling with one leg on either side of mine, drifting his lips from my mouth to my hairline, reaching my earlobe and taking it between his teeth, body flush against mine, slightly raised. His neck was at easy access, and I latched onto the skin and kissing it, swiping my tongue alone the top edge of his shoulder that started the descent of his collarbone. Jean jolted, mouth moving away with a sigh and then a hiss of “yesssss”, the last letter drawn out; unneeded, but sweet. I hummed the question of continuing and he nodded, my arms slipping to his waist and staying there, his in my hair as he breathed into it with stuttering warmth.

My lips travel, slipping further down his skin, grazing his collarbone with my teeth, eliciting a shiver before gently biting the skin just above the heart. I didn’t want to hurt him, mark him. I just wanted to know he was there, feel him moving with me. Heartbeats filtered into my lips. They were rushed and shaking with breath, following the motion of his hands slipping down my neck and across my shoulders, slipping down and then catching at my chest, fingers rolling across my skin, plying and teasing.

I can feel him smile, and he notices the sudden jolt in my chest as he rolls sensitive skin between his fingers, taking a cool breath on his wetted skin. Jean lowers himself, almost sitting on my legs, kissing my cheek once.

Then we join again, fervently kissing. He rolled against me, taking his tongue and knotting it in mine to stop the moan and realisation of hard friction that pressed against me, the jar of his body firing mine, tensing. We pulse closer, falling down and closing contact. My hands fall to the hem of his jeans, tugging at the belt loop. Jean pulls away, eyes warm, chest heaving and eyebrows furrowed low.

“We don’t have to-“

“But we are,” I cut, and I couldn’t help but feel impressed at how affirmative I sounded, how fluent and assertive without even worrying about how it would sound. It fell out perfectly, and suddenly all courage in my words faded. The same affect didn’t last forever.

It didn’t matter as much as I thought it would. Jean smiled, grinning and shaking his head, hair messed up from the hands that had run it through shaking, excitement in his voice. “Really?”

And I nodded, taking his lips back in mine and hurrying my hands to undo the button of his jeans, tugging them down as far as I could, which wasn’t any further than rolling them down past the pockets. No matter how many times I tried, I just couldn't do it.

“I’m going to have to stand up,” he sighed, peeling his chest from mine and kneeling to push them down further, past his thighs and to his knees.

The cliché of breathlessness comes to mind. But it wasn’t that. It was just I couldn’t take a breath deep enough. Seeing someone so vulnerable and naked is an honour. The reason breathlessness was a thing was because I could not take in enough air to fathom the reason why he let me see him like this. And I felt so many things. Excitement, because that was him, all him as he tried to pull the tight jeans from over his calves, flushed slightly and swearing when the dark denim wouldn’t stretch over the heel of his foot. Nervousness, because it was going to happen. Awe. Mostly awe. Awe because he was beautiful, still is beautiful; elegant and perfect. If I had thought it appropriate to cry, I would have done, because I’d never seen a person that way before. The world does not sufficiently teach you to cope with a moment like that, because you just freeze and want to know everything. Inadequacy, shame; because he was leaving himself open and I had done nothing in return, nothing to show him that I had no words to describe how grateful I was to see him that way.

And so I copy his movements. I do what I did when I felt most connected to him. Buttons come undone and the fly is pulled down, and I wrestle off my own clothes, sighing at how we both must look ridiculous; rolling around on a messed up bed as we attempt to take off our seemingly too tight clothes to try and get back to one another sooner.

Jean finishes first, throwing the jeans on the floor, still clad in black underwear that clings to him tightly. I was still trying to pull one leg off, unsuccessfully curling it around to try and take it off. “Do you need some help,” Jean asked, laughing as I huffed. And so he took the fabric in his hand, tugging it away and muttering “I thought it would go a bit smoother than this” under his breath.

“S-same,” I replied, and he dropped the jeans, wrapping his arms around my neck, meeting me on his knees so that we both knelt concurrently; currents, forces of nature tearing at one another in a flurry of kisses and blushes and undulations, tensing and powerful until Jean cut if off again with a small “um.”

“Yeah?” my voice was hoarse, still loud in the newly found silence.

“I just have to do one more quote,” I give Jean a confused look, his hands still placed under the only piece of fabric left on my body, mine around the soft swoop of his hips. “Okay just bare with me here. I just have to remember how it goes… uh,” and then he sings. Quietly, and badly to a tune I vaguely recognise.

_“Why do you love me? Why do you need me? Always and forever... We met in a chatroom, now our love can fully bloom... Sure the world wide web is great, but you, you make me salivate... I love technology, but not as much as you, you see... But I still love technology... Always and forever. Our love is like a flock of doves, flying up to heaven above…Always and forever.“_

“I.. is that N-nnapolleon Dynam-m-mmite?” I question, thinking of the end scene at the wedding. I was pretty sure that was where it was from. Jean looked on Cloud Nine, and thoroughly relieved.

“Yeah, fuck yeah it is… it must seem, uh, pretty weird. Can I explain? I suppose I should. It’s kind of a thing that, like-” I shook my head.

“L-llater?” I asked. Quite honestly, I had other pressing matters I would have rather intended to. We were still so close, it must have been evident. Jean nodded, smiling and moving his hands across my skin with heated fingers.

I remembered when we had fallen asleep on the couch together and waking up, feeling so embarrassed at what my body had decided against my knowledge. And now it was the same embarrassment, yet unconcealed and this time wanted. And Jean was the same, unhidden. We had reached that stage, about to come as close as two people could ever be; and, yes, that can be frightening. Wonderful, exciting and frightening. We were there, at the cliff, about to drop all walls and slip into the water. We were allowing our proximity, we were happening.

Hands were on me. There was no air between us, everything indescribably warm; the heat of bodies against one another and between the movement of his hands along my length and the small “God damn” that escaped his mouth- I was sighing shakily. Fingers trailed, ghosting their presence in such a way that I was shivering, vibrating and tensing to the touch that would harshen as I gulped or, once, let out a small groan as I closed my eyes into the feeling until I snapped them open to see Jean, grinning and blushing. And I couldn’t help myself. I kissed him again, the pace matching his hands, my own following the path his had taken to push down the final piece of clothing, him shifting out with a nip on my lips, my hand taking him, rolling down the skin and pressing the head to a rumble in his chest.

And so we moved together; finding a rhythm to the movements of our hands, one of mine placed at the base of his spine, one of his tracing my thigh, kissing and stroking in the silence of our touch, coming to the conclusion that we weren’t dissimilar.

Jean sighed. He moved his hand, one still following the silent pattern as the other caressed upwards with reaching fingers to cup my behind, one finger pressed gently to the entrance.

“Do you… I mean, can I, uh, um…”

“Oh uh,” _yes, yes you can please, yes, but…_ “uh, mmmm… er, l-llube?”

Embarrassing exertion had my face already heated, but right then- that one word- the blush I knew was there had spread warmly down my neck and across my chest.

Then there was the moment I had to figure out where I had put said lube, that is, if I had any at all. I just prayed that I did have some, and that it wasn’t hidden in the back of my bathroom cupboard from infrequent use. That combined with the fact that the room was freezing around Jean’s body made it terribly difficult to step away.

So I collapsed down, unhappily relinquishing his heat and reaching out to the small bedside cabinet, just hoping and praying that I had something in there and I wouldn’t be subjected to waddling on already shaky legs in the cold to laboriously search the bathroom.

And sometimes, miracles happen. At the back was the tiny bottle of oil that I’d bought some time ago to help get rid of an annoying scar on my leg. And so I thanked past me for trying to forget the time I’d accidentally kneed a wheelbarrow when my Uncle asked me to fill in some potholes along the driveway.

I produced the bottle with a quick smile. Until another muttered question was asked.

“And a uh… a y’know? Condom and shit.”

That was something I definitely didn’t have. And even if I did, we weren’t the same.

My face probably gave it away, Jean choking out a breath. “Why didn’t I bring my bag?”

“y..y-you ha-ave them-mm i-i-i-in your bag?” my tone was rising, definitely unneeded, but I was getting slightly frustrated at how unprepared I always seemed to be.

“I have them in my bag just in case, okay? That’s not unusual.” Jean’s voice rose with mine, “I’m surprised you don’t have any here!”

I groaned, leaning backwards against the pillows and rubbing my face with my hand, completely forgetting our nakedness. Instead I just kept thinking, talking out loud to myself. “Can’t use it an-nnyway. O-ooil makes them br-break easier.”

“Is that just an excuse to do it without?”

“NO!” I cried, again voice rising. “I w-wwas just saying-“

“Well if that’s true then… Ugh I don’t fucking know, could we just go without, just once?” and for the first time, I look at Jean. Naked. Completely stark-arse naked. Flushed and curved upwards. And I suddenly realise I’m the same.

My legs tuck together in an attempt to hide myself fruitlessly. Jean was just so unabashed in comparison, just lop-sidedly smiling at what was most likely the perfect picture of embarrassment.

“Or we could wait.”

“NO,” I practically shout, and Jean laughed. “I DON’T KNNOW.”

We sigh simultaneously, me out of frustration, him at the end of laughter. I put my head in my hands again, yet I could feel Jean staring at me, a sort of energy rolling from him.

“What?” I murmur from behind my hands.

He coughs lightly, blushing and looking away as he talks, voice low. “Um. _Je le dis en français parce que je suis trop lâche pour le dire en anglais, mais tu es la plus belle personne que j’ai jamais rencontrée. Je me fiche bien d’attendre 10 ans si c’est pour être heureux avec toi, je veux seulement que tu sois heureux_. _”_

The bed collapses slightly beneath me and I know he is there. Jean pulls at my hands and I let them go reluctantly, and I repeat a question I had asked seemingly so long ago.

“What does that mean?”

“It… I kind of just explained why. In French.”

“I don’t kn-now French.” I snipped, and Jean sighed, rolling his tongue along his swollen lips, and I can’t help the way my resolve slips. “Pl-lease tell m-mme.”

“It’s going to sound corny as fuck.”

“Don’t care.”

Jean sighs, sitting himself on my lap without warning, skin against skin. Whilst I blushed, he just seemed comfortable. It didn’t faze him; it didn’t bother him like it did me. What he was doing was something I thought I’d never have the guts to do, simply because it was something people who were infinitely comfortable did. He was just thinking through his words, more bothered with what he had to say than the fact that his crotch was against my leg, twitching every time a part of him managed to get some friction.

And he begins. “Okay, so _Je le dis en français parce que je suis trop lâche pour le dire en anglais,_ I’m saying this in French since I’m too much of a coward to say it in English. And then _mais tu es la plus belle personne que j’ai jamais rencontrée_ which is, umm… but you are… you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met and  _j_ _e me fiche bien d’attendre 10 ans si c’est pour être heureux avec toi, je veux seulement que tu sois heureux_ _…_ I don’t care if I have to wait ten years to be with you. I just want you to be happy.” I smiled, Jean looking utterly offended, “don’t give me that look, you’re killing me.”

We sat in silence, his words ringing in my ears, and despite all he said, despite the compliment and the reassurance, there was only one thing I focused on. The untruth in what he had said. He was brave then, confident. I couldn't take the falsification, and so I told him.

“You aren’t a coward,” he looked me in the eye, and there it was. I had found it again; my reason, “y…you’re strong.”

And I was pushed back, head on the pillows and Jean moving around me, kissing and nipping as I sucked in a deep breath and try not to moan as he strokes me, pulling up my legs as he presses our mouths together deeply. The hand on my leg fades away, somewhere in the distance a _pop_ and then every so often a wet noise, a sugared-lemon sigh against my lips.

Then the finger returned, slick and dancing around the entrance, shaking slightly; body tightening with the thought of contact. One, final and silent question arose with the break of our lips, and I ignored it by returning them, a cry of _please. Please, I need you._

It entered. Just one. Slowly. There was no burn, only the paced movement of Jean pressing up against the wall and pulling back, circling the ring with just the first joint inside; stretching and teasing it open. Pressure. Nothing horrible, just the knowing that there is something there, enough for me to close my eyes, enough movement for the occasional flinch between shaking breaths and sharp inhales to be noticeable with every stroke. Eventually it deepened, the full finger stretching inside, not hitting anything in particular, more soft pleasure than anything else.

Then the second. At first, yes, there was a flinch. Mostly it was the shock of cool oil against the burn of building heat. They followed each other in the curling motion, ending in the same circular swipe that ended in a convulsion that made him hiss as I could barely stop the way my bent legs forced a grounding motion onto him, and I kept my eyes closed, almost embarrassed to see how Jean was seeing me in such a way. Again and again came the same motion, becoming more powerful with every stroke, more trialling. Fingers moved more, spreading and joining with the motion already established, a teasing third at the entrance that sometimes dipped with the other two, sometimes joining the others, often with more and more frequency; slipping in slightly deeper with the twice-grown number, friction reigning supreme as they moved and wriggled, hitting a soft spot, and my eyes opened to see him, stroking himself with one hand, mouth babbling silent words surrounded by a focused, gentle look and smile.

I was falling apart.

And then it was gone, all of it. The touch, the breathing and the accommodation he had created.

I’ve always personally hated the feeling of emptiness people describe, because that simply isn’t true. Emptiness revolves around something being taken away entirely, left without replacement, no purpose. That isn’t the feeling. The feeling is more one of anticipation than anything else, of readiness. It is the feeling of preparation, body subconsciously preparing with ripping clenches, pulses of sensation at the memory of the way it has been beautifully prepared and moulded.

Lips on mine briefly. Lips on the tip of my nose, lips on my forehead, words muttered into it. _“Mon ange, mon ange, comment peux tu être aussi parfait ?”_

That moment was it. The connection. The cries and the repetition of those last foreign words, my name on my lips time after time. Eyes opened- right then I couldn’t look away. He was burning, a cool burn. Shaded, brilliant sunlight eyes. The sun through the trees; rolls of the ocean, honey sky bleeding in the world’s cool blanket, tiny laps shielding the endless soul sitting on the current-flowed floor. Jean was moving, never drifting eyes, never changing words. Only the swaying of him the shaking of me, the curl of my body to acclimate underneath him as he let every part of us connect and speak through shattered breath and babbled language, the joining of breath-dry lips wetted by the lack of the ability to swallow through ecstasy; sloppy, messy and out of time with everything else but still beautiful, perfect.

The rise of bodies, the applause of skin. We revelled in it, those long moments birthing a connection into us. Emotions flee, embarrassment gone when there is nothing Jean doesn’t know. Feeling is learnt, his dry heat, my fingers rolling over skin slightly thick with elegant curves, supple underneath, solid under that. The dimpled etched into the base of his spine, growing and stretching wit movement in whichever directing his body directs him in his attempt to learn how our connection feels, every time growing with breaths that we cannot control, emotions we cannot voice.

Vibrations racked through me. It was a chill against the swirling heat, growing tension that only started with a mild shake, a tiny hit that pulled me into the darkness behind my eyelids until I could take it no longer, and I would find him with his eyes lilted in joy and breathing the same infinite breath, and endless, endless endless cradling of two people dying to be close, breaking themselves apart to try and learn how to make the other whole. That was what we were doing; mentally, physically crumbling away into the fluttering pages of an open book with shared chapters, stories intertwined willingly with crossed red string tied around and wrapped tightly over every part of our being until we could prove ourselves to be better people when thinking only of the other- when all I could do was indulge in his perfection and voice with one word everything I had ever hoped for.

His name was on my lips. I could never get it wrong; never in one thousand years could his name form incorrectly. Again and again, a broken record stuck on the perfect chord; rising in pitch, growing hoarser and breathier with every final internal tug and euphoric spasm of delicious tension that was teasingly close. My body was forcing it out, crying to just _please, please let me have this, please_ ; and I concaved and splinter around him, my lips the wave flying with explosive power onto the cliff of his mouth, my final cry a shivered whisper of his name on his skin, on his body. Jean groaned, everything faltering and collapsing one final time in an internal supernova we manage to contain.

We breathed.

And we fell away, exhausted. Time caught up with us all at once, our minds absent of the memory of what the body expects of the narcotic we both took. Age too. Neither of us were virile seventeen year olds on the cusp of an internal revolution. Time, age, exhaustion was wrapped together and thrown at us both at once. Our night still continued in the early morning, but now it was time to finally succumb, and no matter how much we would have loved to do it again or just sit and laugh at smile at how stupid we both were, as how magically imperfectly perfect it was, we couldn’t. Jean had collapsed onto my outstretched arm. As he rolled over he kissed the skin, finally settling at the elbow and yawning.

I could forgive him. I was doing the same. Staring at the damp of his hair, the tired evening light in his eyes.

There he lay, resting his head in the crook of my arm. Of course, it was destined to go dead after a short amount of time but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Our skin was dewed in the faint lines of morning light that filtered through the too small curtains to lay striped over crumpled sheets and loose shaken appendages, body fluids not cleaned away in the midst of fatigue. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Sleep had caught up so fast, and all I could think of was this one song, this one song that sat in my mind and whistled cheerily along with country voices serenading each other in adorable harmonies of content as I drifted. I had forgotten how much this song resonated within me. I had forgotten the song until then. I had forgotten the message it sang and then spoke, somehow managing to get me to listen to the words rather than just the way the drum and guitar kept a rhythm that kept my voice seemingly steady.

Jean had fallen asleep, eyes closed and pressed into me, feather eyelashes fluttering. He still seemed to frown into his sleep and somehow it made him more perfect. Somehow, not seeing his face shift from the usual expression made him so much better, because despite the look, despite the bravado of grumpiness I knew how desperately unlike that he could be; he was and still is.

And I thought of the words spoken in that song, and somehow it fit him. Somehow it managed to fit us. I imagined his perfect, humour-tinged voice in place of the girls, using my own- rough and low from constant use-in the waning darkness of night-time and consciousness to talk to him, to say the words irrelevant to us, and yet it told our story; because he was the one who lived every moment as though tomorrow was just an illusion. He was and still is the one who moans about the chores of life, who blows the smallest thing out of proportion like it is all a lie, and yet is so unabashed to tell the truth with everything, despite what others may say. I am the one who is there to roll my eyes and wonder how I had managed to let myself rise to him, because in my mind, there is no one that can compare to the way I fall slightly more in love with him every time he does something with a huff or a sigh. Despite unsaid words, I know he feels the same with me when I reassure him that there is nothing more important than the home we have made together, that there was a tomorrow where I would wake up with him, kiss quickly and do the mundane routine to return to him, to see one another and our family, and then come home to say something that may just make him smile that little bit more, that may break through the stressful talks with editors and publishing companies and have him laughing, or thanking me in the dead of night with a gentle smile and a kiss.

Just a simple, foreign memory in a song. Somehow, it was us, and that night- Jean Kirschtein sleeping on my numb arm at half seven in the morning- I admitted the words for the first time, thinking of him in the reply of the story, and I spoke them out loud even though I knew he couldn’t hear in the dark of blissful sleep.

**

“Do you remember that day you fell out of my window?”

  _I sure do. You came jumping out after me._

 _“_ Well, you fell on the concrete and nearly broke your arse and you were bleeding all over the place, and I rushed you off to the hospital. Do you remember that?”

Y _es I do._

 _“_ Well there’s something I never told you about that night.”

_Oh, what didn’t you tell me?_

_“_ Whilst you were sitting in the back seat smoking the cigarette you thought was going to be your last, I was falling deep, deeply in love with you, and I never told you until just now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo!! I'm back. Yeah, I know, it's been a little while, but I needed the break and honestly I'm glad I had it. 
> 
> If you're wondering what went down, I was at a festival and it was bloody amazing. I got stuck in so many fucking moshpits (fourteen alone in the Rudimental set, two in Editors, one in Bombay Bicycle Club, three in Damon Albarn, two at a rave in the woods and two at Haim) I don't even know how it happened, and Damon Albarn was awesome; the whole crowd was singing Clint Eastwood, and it rained and started to storm with massive cracks of thunder and lightening, and everyone just stood and listened before screaming and shit and AW it was fucking magic. It also managed to confirm my undying love for Editors and Phosphorescent. So there's that. (Here's a link to [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TK9uW-sv4WA) from Damon Albarn's set, because it was so good, even though the guy filming is most definitely very drunk, but there's thunder and lightening so it makes up for it. And [here's one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfVo4xbf0Hg) of the lightening but it's really short. Imagine it did that for a whole 30 minutes, and through everyone screaming Clint Eastwood, and a moshpit that almost ended up in me getting a black eye. So, yeah.)
> 
> I've also realised that I've missed writing smut, and the whole time I was away I couldn't stop thinking about this scene. I guess the reason I've kind of peetered off is probably because I was a bit sick of writing something that wasn't two guys banging, and as soon as I started writing I couldn't stop. But here on out I know exactly what's happening, and I'm so fucking excited because they're fucking cute... although I may just be floatin' my own boat here. But it's definitely not the worst smut I've seen *hint hint 50 Shades of THIS FUCKING SUCKS I COULD WRITE BETTER THAN THAT AGED 3 HOW DID THIS GET SO POPULAR*. So, you deserve it for waiting around for so long. Good for you!!
> 
> Next chapter will definitely have a smaller gap than the last one, I promise :) My family honour rode on the fact that I got this out before it hit more than a month, 'cause that's the point people go "WHERE THE FUCK HAVE THEY DISAPPEARED TO, HUH? WAT IS DAT TWAT DOIN'?"
> 
> Thank you all for putting up with my bullshit. You're all lovely and wonderful.
> 
> (Let me know if you like my smut because I may or may write more I'm not sure yet, although it isn't really smutty smut. It's not really Marco's style to get into that sort of actually explicit detail. Either way I have scenes planned out, and definitely a few more sexy moments, but more actual sex is a maybe at the moment, although if I did, I would like to write it from Jean instead.)
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	15. Jean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short. I'm sorry.
> 
> I've taken forever. Sorry x2.
> 
> (Scale of one to ten 'sorry' tally count- life prisoner.)
> 
> A big thank-you once again to dark_cacahuete for resuscitating the dead body that is my French language skills. I'm running out of things to compare you to, you're just too awesome. Thank you so much!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW, this is the song mentioned in the last chapter, but it was sort of a running theme between both 14 and 15 so I'm putting it here.
> 
> It's one of those songs you do know, you just don't realise it yet.... that or you do know it, in which case, you're awesome. It's a sweet little song.
> 
>  
> 
> [(X)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjFaenf1T-Y)

I really think that night fucked me up a bit.

I can’t describe him. I just can’t. At least, not like I could at first. Somehow he had just managed to shift, and I could never fathom why.

That night was just strange for me, of course great… really, really fucking great… but also strange. Every time I try to think about it, I just can’t- like I’m almost afraid that if I thought of it, tried to play over how he had just… fuck. Memory almost sullies him. I just cannot do it, think of him like that. Not in hindsight. I suppose moments like that is just a spur of the moment thing for me, a one shot time that passes as soon as we cannot go on any longer. Sure, I can see him. Even now, even as I think of what I should put into words and what I shouldn’t I just….

I stop.

My whole damn being pauses for a moment, and I just can’t do anything; not write, not breathe or blink or… fucking anything. I just can’t do it. He’s consuming. I guess that’s the only way I can properly describe it. He’s like listening to your favourite song for the first time, like properly watching your first sunset- not because someone goes “woah hey look at that sunset. Isn’t it pretty?” but because one day you’re driving or, I don’t know, doing something… and there it is. In your face, practically laughing at your jaw-on-the-floor expression and you don’t care. You’ve got the good end of the stick when you’re the one staring at something amazing. It could be throwing knives at your face, but you don’t actually give a fuck, because for the first time you really look. Like magic, like screaming lyrics from a song you’ve listened to for hours on repeat because they talk for you, and it’s perfect. It was perfect.

My eyes had opened, and I thought I saw everything in the flush of one person. Every language was spoken in the infinite ways he said my name, another master dialect he could manage to say without stumbling in a way that mattered to him more than it ever could to me.

Suddenly, I was reminded of stars. In daylight I was reminded of a memory I’d practically forgotten over time.

I must have been pretty young, perhaps seven or eight. But it was definitely when my _Grand-père_ was still kicking around. I’m almost sure that that was the day I’d been sent home early for punching a kid when he pointed out a pretty violent tick, but I can just remember that no one was home but G-pap and, like always, he was in the room he’d designated as his own, mouth around a fucking fat cigar that made me want to hold my nose shut with my fingers.

He was one of those stereotypical French fucks with speckles, lengthy facial hair and a stomach that could probably have hidden a small family in the chance that a bomb was going to fall onto the city- and it would keep them all safe from the explosion. When he wasn’t smoking, he was drinking, and when he wasn’t drinking he was either eating or sleeping. But there were moments where he was suddenly mystically lucid. I just guess that day was one of them, when I caught him as a person rather than just someone who was slowly losing their mind to a disease I didn’t understand.

And I had gone into his office, and there he was, cleaning this golden-ish metal thing. I had no clue what it was at the time, and he noticed me standing there, turning around and smiling.

Now, my grandparents never exactly learnt the English language. They never tried, only ever bothering with their native French simply because they’re stubborn people with hard heads and too many patriotic tendencies for one couple to ever manage without overflow. But that was fine. My parents and I spoke both- French around my Grandparents’, English at home. And so he had just smiled, tapping the brass of the tripod and said _“Je pense que tu es assez grand pour comprendre que le monde est infini.”_

I think you are old enough to understand that the world is infinite.

And yeah, like you would expect, I didn’t because it was God damn ambiguous. I was a kid. Of course I didn’t understand. Infinity is this impalpable thing that only exists as a word meaning something beyond comprehension. But he was crazy and I really liked the telescope, so that night we set it up in the back yard, looked at the sky as he told me the name of every constellation he still remembered whilst I tried to think of what he meant.

I suppose now I believe that he was saying there is more than what we perceive, more options than just those at face value- and it’s true, there is. You learn that what you see of a person is only the surface, and you have to scratch everything off to really understand what’s going on underneath.

I suppose to me, G-pop was like the ultimate source of knowledge at that age. He wasn’t like my Pa or Ma, two hardworking people with little time on their hands and a penchant for truth-telling, the facts and figures. He was different. He could have literally told me bullshit from day one and I could have believed it, told me a made-up story was true as he sat around for hours on end like a fat lazy bugger and lied through his teeth- he was just that sort of person; bloody sagacious and quick-witted until the end.

But that night, I kind of knew something was wrong because he let me look at everything in the sky until I fell asleep in the grass. No bed time, no call to come in because it was freezing outside. He sat in his broken deck-chair and let me look at the moon, waited with me as I followed the line of wet chalk spattered in the sky for hours in a silence only broken by an owl and passing cars.

And then, as I plucked grass out of the lawn with my jacket folded underneath my head, he said just a few words. _“La beauté est  indescriptible.”_

Beauty is indescribable.

That was the only thing he said that I truly understood. When you’re little you think “Beauty? Ew,” but you really know that it’s true. I was witnessing it, unable to think of how I would describe it to someone else if they asked, but I knew it was there.

I got that feeling that night. Lying close to Marco’s chest, his breath rising and falling in peaceful sleep, the light that was starting to piss me off with its heat not bothering him in the slightest, I just wanted to write a million words on what I saw. What he made me feel without even trying. Because I couldn’t believe it myself. If I could tell him every word, I would. Describing Marco is like describing colour to someone who has never seen it. You can’t. You do that whole, ‘infinite monkeys on infinite typewriters’ thing, where you just keep going until you finally spit out something that matches the original. Two minutes and bleary eyes couldn’t compete with infinity.

Perfect isn’t enough. Beautiful doesn’t describe him; close, but not him. I could create words, think of something meaning nothing similar and say that instead, use an oxymoron of two contrasting perfections, a sound, a sight, a referent to nature or whatever. If I wanted, I could draw off of everything I know and tell him how I felt. But that is never enough. Words are never enough.

It actually kind of pissed me off. Still does.

So I got up, looking around the room for my discarded underwear and pulling them on, deciding that my shirt smelt fucking disgusting, and so raiding Marco’s Ikea wardrobe instead, finding a random shirt and slipping it over my head, thanking the slight bagginess for the warmth it brought.

I pissed, remembering to shut the door this time, washed my hands and flecking bits of dry come from my dick and checked how grim I looked in the mirror, surprised that I wasn’t terrible. A bit greasy looking, a bit messed up and probably actually really disgusting if I bothered to do a generic sniff-check of my armpits, but fine. Happy. I looked inspired. Being cheesy, there was a light behind my eyes. Really, I just knew that even if my sleep was short, it was also good. Inspiration seems to filter back when that happens to me.

There was only one thing I really wanted to do. Except wake Marco up and do a repeat of yesterday.

Words were buzzing, and I couldn’t help myself. I looked around the room, trying to find paper, trying to find anything for me to write on, doing something I promised myself I’d do for such a long time but never did. Eventually, I snagged Marco’s notebook and flicked to a clean page, tapping on the paper three times with the pen attached to the rings before scrawling the first word.

I carried on the story I’d started to write.

After years of putting off a continuation, I wrote. I thought of what I wanted to happen, deciding on three things very clearly.

For some reason, I felt as though my main character was running his due course, and that I wanted to either think of a way to keep him on, or get rid. I came to the conclusion that I’d kill him off, caught in the midst of a trap and unable to escape. Not something he deserved- far from it- but something that provoked emotion in the other characters and changed how they thought, turning their opinion on everything that has happened. The death would be the start of a revolution for peace, and I was ready to talk about that.

The second thing was that I really wanted a couple. Not something that would overrun the story, just subtle, in the background but still important. I had two characters in mind. Two women. I guess they just seemed right in my head in a way that didn’t interrupt. Really, they helped. Besides that, I’d read too many books with heteronormative couples, and quite frankly, even I could appreciate some boob on boob action.

The last was a mistake I’d made. I wanted to bring someone back, I suppose for sentimentalities sake.

Marco’s cat sat on his beat-up couch, watching me the whole time. I just wrote random lines I definitely wanted, plot points I kept coming up with, stringing them together with lines on the paper, a mixture of French and English, questions to myself, tiny doodles, listing down the ways a person can feel betrayal, or hate, or anger so big and bitter the only way to release it is to explode.

Perhaps I wrote things opposite to how I felt to try and understand. I don’t even know how I had managed to write so much, page after page of just words that I didn’t relate to, and yet they were good. I felt satisfied with them, knowing that what I saw was not the same was not how I felt. 

I guess I was trying to expel bad words, to try and end up with some purity or catharsis. One page had some good words and pretty lines that sometimes popped into my mind. They weren’t for him, they were from him.

So yeah, thanks for that Marco. ‘Muse’ sounds so fucking stereotypical.

This carried on for hours, and over time I grew into the rhythm. Until, that is, the cat slunk its way onto my lap, and my head hit Marco’s table. I fell asleep again, waking up what felt like moments later to the rattle of a bubbling kettle and the faint drift of thin paper.

I must have been pretty out of it considering I’d only slept for a few hours then went on a crazy-night fuelled writing rampage only to konk out at his table. Thinking it over now, it was very much a dick move to let Marco wake up alone like I’d decided to slink off home in the middle of the night- or morning- to do something as selfish as writing, leaving him alone to wake up as though I felt embarrassed by what we’d done.

But I’m one of those people that immediately come up with an idea and if I forget then it’s gone, and I’m left pissed at myself for not remembering because I _know_ it was good, and then I act like a piece of shit for an entire day when I try to remember what I forgot and just… can’t. I suppose I counteract my dickheadedness by consoling myself with the fact that Marco had subconsciously helped me write it. It was just the way he seemed so upset at…

**

I don’t know what else to write about that day.

A newspaper being rattled had woken me up, a coffee handed to me with a peck on the lips and a grimace indicating bad morning breath. 

The realisation of how great a person Marco is.

I don’t know if I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it over and over again until my lips are blue-  that man is seriously too good for me and somehow manages to put up with so much of my shit that sometimes I find myself confused as to why he sticks around.

He was already dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of slightly soaked shorts, showing off the freckles that bounced along the front of his shins and around slender calves and for a while he talked about how Connie had called up and screamed down the phone.

It turns out that my car was about to get towed, and Con had decided to lie spread-eagle on the scratched bonnet to stop the trucker from dragging my poor little wreck of a car away, and Sash tried to bribe the asshole with a fried breakfast in an attempt to try and make sure it wasn’t towed. Marco had run out of his flat like a fucking wonderful, heavenly light and haloed angel of the lord on God damn high and took my car back with him, on the way going into my flat to feed Titan, pick up some clothes and even ‘prepared’ (as he put it. Not my chosen word.) for next time by buying condoms and actual lube on the way back. He’d just thought of everything!

Meanwhile I slept. Like a slob. Like an asshole. In my boxers and at his table.

_Good fucking job Kirschtein. Really._

So if that didn’t earn Marco an apology and thank-you blow job, I don’t know what does. We managed to combine a long overdue shower with a quickie that took long enough for the water to run cold and my knees to stiffen up against the porcelain. Plus I think my jaw was stiff for a few days after that- an occupational hazard of sucking dick.

And do you know what? He had a nice dick. Still does. Well, apart from the grey pube incident that ended in disaster, but we got over that with a lot of soap, some bleach and a new toilet seat. But still, a freckle on the dick keeps this geezer very happy. The little man takes after the big man, or whatever. I’m convinced Marco is Our-Freckled-Father-Who-Art-In-Heaven and his dick is Freckled Jesus. Y’know, Son of God, kin of the Big Guy, the Man Upstairs’ little man, and all that?  

I’m pretty sure that I swallowed my own tongue when I spotted it, and I definitely spent too long nipping at them. Doing shit in the dark meant I was definitely less observant, especially of adorable little brown dots on his scrote and a couple on the shaft, but give me a couple of lights in the ceiling and some modern, weird-ass, backstage at a strip club shaving mirror and these twenty-twenty eyes can pick that shit up any day of the week. It’s not exactly an everyday occurrence to get freckled penis, and some people think it’s gross. Fuck them. Freckles are the best wherever they are. Builds character. Gives you strong bones.

Or just me. Whatever.

And do you know what made it even better? He got me newspapers. Or more specifically the Recon’s; because, you see, page twenty and twenty-one had my name written all over it, the photo I’d taken annoyingly split into two, thankfully not carving Madame Rose down the middle, my article split into a black and white border surrounding it.

A colour slot was wasted on this. The only outstanding glimpse of anything on the spectrum was mostly in the shitty, unpleasant reporter photo of my grumpy face next to my name and the green, brown and hints of copper hair mixed in with Madame Rose in a pale dress standing in a field of broken white. Quite frankly, if other people didn’t make her look like the picture of innocence I’d made her out to be in the article, then I consider the world to be fucked up and I’d willingly relinquish my self-deserved title of ‘best amateur photographer this side of Trost’ and live in a hole somewhere.

So I had Hanji to thank for a good editing job, Marco for pretty much everything else and myself for the decent lump of money written on a check I still hadn’t cashed up.

Marco was pleased with the article too, and I realised just how much of a difference different people made to my work.

Hanji is wonderful. Crazy, scary, but someone you either become forced to get along with or else you know they’d just piss you off. It rubs off with everything they do. You know Hanji’s gone through your work when you find a random smiley face placed at the base of the page, or a word you certainly wouldn’t use stuck slap-bam in the middle of your work. It kind of defined them, although I’m almost certain that they’ve been knocked around the head rather a few times by Levi for the trouble.

It varied from when Marco did it. His was just… cleaner, I suppose. Like polishing a turd until the turd turned into a slab of gold rather than covering the turd with multi-coloured sprinkles and strawberry sauce.

We just pandered over it a while, and I let myself enjoy the flush of pride in seeing Marco smile as he read it thought, probably not for the first time. It’s kind of nice to be lazy like that, and I was getting to the point where I was actually enjoying the fact that I didn’t have a solid job.

Give it two weeks and I was partially freaking, but then? Yeah, I loved it.

I could pick up a different paper after every write and still see my name printed in it, on a different topic- on something I wanted to write. There didn’t have to be a three am call telling me to get my ass up and off to somewhere half across the country to follow a story I couldn’t actually care less about. You’d think after working myself for long enough I’d perhaps get some freedom. But corporality doesn’t breed that. Getting out does.

And do you know what? I made plans. Actual, solid plans that meant Marco and I had to do something other than being lazy, or act like I was ten years younger than I actually was. Adult plans, like serious dates that fulfil meaningful purposes.

Sort of. I’m not sure a Christmas party counts as an ‘adult reason’.

Socially, I was pretty flippant. Being dragged off at random times doesn’t make for the best social life, but now I could kind of work around that. If I wanted to wake up at two in the afternoon, I could. If I felt the inclination to stay up all night and write about something completely unrelated to anything, then that was an option too.

Marco had set dates, sure, but they could still change. Levi could have a heavy day and need an extra set of hands, or someone could call in sick. Being overworked was still an option, and I knew it was a common one considering how many times I’d see editing from one day to the next wearing the same clothes, albeit slightly more coffee stained and crumpled.  It’s not an easy line of work, and it’s not glamorous or well paid. You just get sucked in, and it felt like it was moreso when I was doing it without any push.

So I gladly let myself give in to the first proper ‘lazy evening’ of many to come. Waking up at two in the afternoon doesn’t leave much time to fit in a proper day, but we figured curling up with Netflix on his laptop (because Marco hadn’t even set up a television yet, poor guy) and talking over the small amount of notes I’d written were more productive than anything else we could do otherwise, feeling more comfortable than I had in a long time.

I didn’t go home that night either. We both drifted off watching ‘Orange is the New Black’, waking up not too far along in the series and deciding we’d finish it off together some other time. At some point we skulked our way to the bedroom, and I curled up against Marco’s warm back and never noticed when he left, trying wake me up but failing.

 

…The only problem I’ve found with not having a steady job is that other people still have theirs, and when waking up next to someone makes me the happiest and most content I think I’d ever felt, taking that away seems all the more painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God. 4300 hits, you are amazing, thank you so much! Woah holy smokes Jiminy Cricket and big fat Batman balls on a lollipop stick up the golden asshole of glory. Thanks, and thanks again. (Tiger and Bunny reference... that's how pleased I am!)
> 
> No but seriously, thank you. I never imagined I'd get this many hits and I'm so grateful. Really. I never expected it so I'm over the fucking moon and I don't think I can say thank you enough.
> 
> (Btw Jean's AOT plot doesn't follow the actual. I kinda thought about what might happen in the future perhaps but probably not. Yumikuri was canon for me before it was actually canon. Fucking superhuman future teller skills right here yo.)
> 
> And so to the serious shit where I kinda act like an ass and kiss your feet a bit, because YES it's later than a week and I'm a dickhead, twatfaced fuckrod that takes another fucking age to push such a tiny chapter chapter out of my asshole, but also because SEE, I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE SHORTER THAN LAST TIME wahahaha. But seriously, I'm at a stage where I'm up to the limit on what I've written ahead of time, so I sort of started multiple chapters at once but never finished off the chapter that was supposed to go out next and i wrote more but hated it, so I cut it down and rewrote, ending up with less. So yeah. Hate me all you will, but I already know I'm an idiot. As pittance, take anything you want; my soul, my first born child, my faith in humanity, I think I have Ben and Jerrys somewhere... seriously, it's like a jumble sale back here. Buy one get one free. Use your clubcard for extra deals and all that shit.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://luukiead.tumblr.com/)


	16. Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE AUTHOR OF THIS FIC IS DIRTY TRASH WHO IS TOO LAZY TO DO A FULL CHECK TO SEE WHETHER THIS IS SHIT OR NOT.
> 
> OKAY BYE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuses below.

People take death differently. It’s something you hear often; the story of a friend with a friend who laughed instead of cried at a funeral, or lashed out because the grief is something they don’t quite know how to handle. I’ve come to find that it is actually more common than what we believe it to be.

In society we come to create our own constructs from the foundation of the generations above us. We then mould them; our lives constructive criticism and our actions the tools, until we have an answer to our emotions that suits us just perfectly. Our reaction to death is one of these things since it creeps up on us so often without realising, a constant that we all know will eventually come. We see death everywhere and we become almost indoctrinated to it. We’re numbed, and our reactions numb too, blur, weaken.

It’s the same with other things. We all act differently, it’s in our DNA to, but we know that there are things we should and shouldn’t do in certain situations. Laughing at a funeral is one of those things. Another you could say is when someone makes a stupid mistake and you correct them in a forceful way. But the most common, and I’m ashamed to say that I’m someone who suffers majorly from this habit, is laughing when someone is in pain or discomfort.

And it sounds so terrible but I know people do it because I too shamefully do it. I never mean to, and hate myself for it afterwards, but that never means that I can’t stop myself if I start. Of course I wish that I never do it in the first place but simply wishing does not guarantee that I won’t. You can see the dilemma.

Did you ever have a time where a friend fell over and it was like watching a Laurel and Hardy black and white, seeing them flail and collapse with their face scrunched up, almost expecting the wubbled sigh and shrug of a horn? Even though they could be hurt, you snort as your hand rises up to cover your mouth as their face crumples with their distress. But that’s when you realise. You think ‘oh God, I’m horrible’ when they turn to look at you because they heard you laugh at their mistake…

That’s the point where everything goes so right or very, very wrong.

Your friend could be one that shrugs it off with a laugh. They’d wipe their hands on their thighs and say “Oh well, doesn’t hurt that bad” and then you’d laugh together a bit, poke at their mistake gently and move on.

Or it could go the other way. And this is where my problem lay.

You see, I hadn’t known Jean very long at this point. In fact it was one month and one week since my first day at Recon and I’d met him just a few days shy of that. So you can understand my concern. I hadn’t seen everything of Jean; I didn’t know him so well so I couldn’t judge at how he would react. He’s hot-headed and stubborn, and of course I had managed to get a glimpse of that. But writing this now compared to back then, well, I’ve seen the extent. And it is pretty extensive when it gets going. Right then I had no clue and when you’re just starting out with someone it’s one of those things you cannot judge if they see your reaction as a fatal flaw or a perk.

I suppose I should explain.

 

It was a few days before the office party… and I was freaking out. I would never say I was a control freak; I just like things to be done right. The problem was that I had no plan. The invitation sat as a printed copy pinned to the wall of my booth and every so often I would glare at it and see the dress code and, I don’t know, feel myself shiver with a mixture of disgust and fear. Disgust because I knew that Hanji was the sort of person that would force a suggestive dress code, that was just them, and whilst I had nothing against it, to me it was perhaps slightly inappropriate considering I didn’t know my bosses well enough for me to get away with it.  I could feel Hanji watching me from across the room trying to judge what I was going to do, how I would work around the words to try and avoid going down the route they were tempting. Perhaps like a test, perhaps a fall-back for when I couldn’t think of anything.  So, slightly fearful.

It only got worse when Sasha emailed me a picture of hers and Connie’s outfits of choice. They were of course perfect for them, and even Hanji seemed rather please with the short skirt and crop-top Sasha had weaved in as well as Connie’s skin tight leggings that seemed to outline too much but just enough. The look I got after that though- sometimes I still have nightmares. Equally as bad as the time I thought I caught Levi trying to smile. It said ‘you have some work to do’ but also with ‘I seriously hope you fail’ mixed in.

And that’s how I ended up not sleeping for three days. I truly didn’t mean to, but I’d ended up exhausting every option to try and please everyone. I could sense the sort of atmosphere, but also trying to mix in something appropriate considering my boss was going to be there was slightly scary. Plus trying not to be the person that just turned up against the dress code, the party-pooper… I honestly had no idea why I was so stressed looking back, it was so silly but I was just nervous. New job, new city. It makes the difference.

Jean, I could tell was getting a glimpse of my slight meltdown. I’d sent him a text at three in the morning asking him what he was going to do. Of course I then spent four hours waiting for a reply whilst crying over a studded collar I’d spotted whilst searching ‘pet costume’. Page four of a Google search is not a safe place for a sleep-deprived human.

Thankfully he came back more successful.

**From Jean: I just have an ugly jumper with Rudolf on it that I save for these things. Hanji’s Hanji. Ignore it when they’re being suggestive, everyone else does.**

If you’ve ever run off of no sleep before, you can understand what it is like when something miraculous happens. The world seems to shine and you want to sleep and start flying at the same time. Those lines felt like the first spoken words that left Jesus’ mouth.

That started another day of searching for ugly jumpers in my breaks, on a tab at the computer when Levi wasn’t around between editing, sending and re-editing an article Reiner had sent from a football match in Argentina and enjoying thoroughly. By the end of the day I was so relaxed that I forgot food for both myself and Scout and had walked straight into my bedroom, stripped and then collapsed. I put extra biscuits in her bowl in the morning, guilt thoroughly tripped by her complaint-filled grumbles.

I grabbed my phone, only half charged, from the table and looked at the single text on the screen.

**From Jean: You decided yet?**

And do you know what? I was decided. And I confirmed it with just a smiley face.  I had work in the morning, but my afternoon was free so after I checked through the emails on my laptop to find the reservation code, had a light breakfast of tea and a slice of toast and left for work.

The look Hanji gave me when I settled down at my desk was horrifying, but it reminded me of the monster under the bed. When you’re young it’s terrifying; the slimy, hairy, tentacled thing that slithers and writhes around waiting with its only eye like a snail’s, extended to peek around and stare at the lump under the covers whilst licking its rotten, pointed teeth in anticipation. But of course you get older and suddenly the monster is replaced with three pairs of trainers, a half broken action figure and a bag filled with pebbles, and the monster only resembles the one sticky toy you had gotten in a blind bag and let grow its own dust-bunny barnet.

Hanji had given the look. It was manic, filled with horrifying expectation and just a day ago I would have cowered and hung my head in shame. But that was the day that I glared straight back, face blank and raised an eyebrow, silently saying ‘That’s right, I sorted myself out. What’re you going to do about it?’

The look fell quickly into something of disappointment. They turned to Levi’s window and shrugged, whining a “Why me?” much louder than they needed to. Levi rolled his eyes behind the glass and got back to work.

So until two when I finally packed my things and left I got shining glares. Sometimes I would see Hanji, their mind ticking slowly, methodically, through their strange thought processes. It didn’t unnerve me, it was almost rather gratifying to see them that way, sombre.  I took my time putting my notepad and collection of memory sticks away. I’d look over and see them staring… and smile, then if I really felt like it, wave.

If only I had known what I know now about Hanji.

**

I decided to walk to the town centre. It was a clear day, the blue skies after the sky released all of its wintery rain and a few days ago snow. The ground was mostly just damp but along the bank of the pavement was the train of grey sludge churned over from the undersides of the patiently turning tires making their ways along the streets. It was only short, district to district only a walk away and at that time of day the lunch rush just ends and the afternoon quiet begins. This mixed with my self-satisfaction made everything pleasant.

That was, until I spotted Jean on a bench.

He was, want for a better word, ragged, and was clearly trying to work, headphones lopsided over his head and notepad resting on one knee. But apart from that he looked generally flustered; his leg jumped under the flapping wad of paper, shuffling his trousers up his leg and the green jacket that was clearly too thin for December weather slipping down his shoulder. I was stopped in the centre of the pavement staring but I wasn’t the only one. A woman on his side of the road clearly semi-circled around him as she got closer, and a few men in suits gave despairing looks.

So I crossed over the road, thankful for a car’s slowed speed and stood in front of him. Jean didn’t notice. He was too focused on his notepad, filled with scribbles and endless questions as well as the rhythmic screech of his music he bobbed along to, vaguely recognisable.

It was only when his music got very loud and he jumped that he seemed to see me there and pulled his headphones down to around his neck. Jean looked tired. Positively done with whatever he was doing and looking for a distraction- which I was grateful to give him.

“You have no idea Marco… Jesus fuck.” He slapped the notepad down on the bench beside him and rubbed his face over with his hands. “I am so screwed right now.”

“Uh oh,” I muttered, sitting myself down beside Jean and preparing for the rant to begin.

It didn’t take long, just a few seconds for him to finish his internal whining for him to sigh. “This isn’t going anywhere. The police are in the verge of dropping the Black’s case and Pixis won’t even consider taking on anything else theoretical. So now I’ve got an article that no broadsheet’s gonna take on and a head case that has got nothing left going for it. Oh fuck,” Jean groaned, leaning his head into his hands, elbows on his knees, “I’m going to have to go tabloid…”

And I suppose this is the part where I should warn you of what I said earlier about laughing at someone else’s discomfort. In his eyes I could see the total despair, the hardship and yet _, whoops_ , it slipped. Of course it was terrible, it was. Losing your line of thinking is never a nice feeling; but the childish pout, the cracked bottom lip frayed like the edge of an old trim of lace, hair slightly greasy and a faint trace of stubble underneath his jaw… all ruining the casually pristine Jean, the man with his arse in the air, arrogant, but still able to fall.

At this point, you can probably guess what I did. I laughed. Jean, well, he gave me a look that could probably curdle milk. I stopped short, clamping my lips shut as his eyes slatted and I coughed the tickle from my throat.

“T-tabloid’s fine,” I commiserated.

Jean threw a look of despair my way, ending the brief storm with a list of complaints stored away for just this moment. “But they’re gonna pay less than half as what Recon would give, and I don’t do that style. I can’t touch that sort of style, it’s bullshit. And when it gets to editing there’ll be some fifty year old git with a gut shoving fucking verbs everywhere and…”

I laughed again, cutting Jean off with a short burst of “Verbs!” He slapped my arm, crossing his own and staring out into the street.

I really did feel awful, I promise I did.

A slight glint of tired anger. “Don’t laugh, I’m fucking serious here,” he muttered, burying his chin into the collar of his thin jacket. I slowed my laugh to look at him, his gaze drifting over the road to look at the lack of people around. My own misplaced reaction petered out with a sigh and a pang of guilt. A small car trundled past, trying not to slip on ice. Grumpily, Jean mumbled into his coat, unintelligible.

“Sorry.”

I can’t be sure of how long I sat there, staring out at the street, but Jean at some point got back to scribbling down arrows and questions all over the page. The pencil kept smudging in the soggy air. In the end I stretched my legs out in front of me and leant backwards. It was nice, not really doing anything after stressing out non-stop for so long, although I caught the feeling that Jean had picked up from where I left off.

“H-how about som-mething else?” I tried. He looked at me as though I had turned purple.

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “Life based? Creative?”

Jean snorted. “A life based article. Seriously?”

My reply consisted of a hum and my gaze turning back out onto the street. I had thought it was a good idea; his writing tended to have an easier, more relatable style.

“Okay fine!” He slammed the notepad onto the wet wood. His fingers scratched through his stubble. “’The Despondent Author’s Guide to Understand the Inner Mind of a Modern Writer.’ Or how about ‘Fuck the Head of Criminal Investigations and his Shitty Bald Head.”

“I like the f-ffirst one more.” I said jokingly. The edge of his lip twitched but fell, humour almost useless. “That bad?”

He groaned. “I’m so screwed. I can’t fuck this up but I just… I want this story so bad, and there’s just nothing for me to go on. I feel like shit leaving it.”

I hummed in understanding. It’s true; leaving something alone when you do not want to is the worst. Like an itch, as the old simile would go. One of those things that may never be solved, no resolution found for the victim. The attachment to a story is important for the writer; after all they will be following it around and so becoming bored is never preferable. Having it completed is such a joy, and yet leaving it is oppositely affecting. And having deaths involved too… It made it a whole lot worse.

Unsure of quite how to gently lead Jean away from his mood, I patted his leg and grinned before heaving myself up, half sure that I had somehow managed to gain another ten years when I wasn’t looking.

Jean’s eyes followed me. I turned to look back at him, an eyebrow raised. His clashed low over his eyes.

“Where are you going?”

I shrugged and put my hand in my pocket. “T- to stuff.”

“Stuff.” Jean huffed. A woman down the road watched us at the bus stop. “Distracting stuff?”

“Maybe.” I decided to check my answer. “Definitely.”

He almost looked rejected. Picking up the notebook he threw one leg over the other and placed the notepad on his bent knee. The pencil in his hand tapped between his thumb and the top knuckle of his index finger. “I’ve got things too.” He took up the pencil, grasp firm. “Sorry. Talk to you later?”

I wanted to laugh again. Actually, I almost did, well, more like snorted. Perhaps the cold had gotten to him- or me- maybe he was so distracted that he could not see my intentions. “No.” My neck rolled. His eyes furrowed again for a moment before he looked up, head tilted just to the right in thought. “You’re com-ming too.”

“Marco I can’t! I need to get this done-“

Perhaps it was just the right time to lean down and place a firm peck on his forehead, but for once I just wanted him to shut up. His thin lips seemed to disappear into his mouth in thought. I smiled against his skin, pausing for a long moment to let it sink in. Eyelashes fluttered a light breeze against my cheeks.

“This isn’t helping me get things done at all.” Jean’s voice creaked in its quiet.

“It is,” I murmured against him. “It’s a distr-r… distraction. They're helpful ssometimes.”

“Pretty sure that’s the opposite of getting things done.” His hand landed on my waist, squeezing lightly. I wanted to reach and hold him somewhere, anywhere, and moved my fingers to find purchase against the crunching fabric of the sleeve of his jacket.

“Then we’ll get stuff done in-sstead.” My hand slid down his arm, taking his hand. “Coming?”

I gave him no choice in the matter.

 **

In reality I actually needed to pick up two things, not one.

I had been living in what I liked to call ‘The Void’ which is basically a moniker for the small space in which I stood where anything to do with technology past 2003 is almost obsolete. To give you an idea of how far behind I was, my phone had not changed for coming up to ten years.

It was a Nokia, one of those bricks that would survive a nuclear blast alongside the cockroaches. What did you expect? Granted it had barely seen any use, apart from the occasional text, and to be honest it was the most reliable phone I have or will ever own. In some ways I miss the thing, now so indoctrinated to the endless circle of glamorous systems that seem to get more and more complicated with every six monthly revamp that it must be a chemical addiction. Sometimes the whole thing makes me feel older than I really am.

But, sadly, its useful life was coming to an end. Through no fault of its own I decided that the world had moved too far on to allow the phone to reside as a feature in my life and so it was time to allow it to rest, retire. Mostly it was an internet thing. Have you ever had to look something up and not had anything to do it with? I had never had so much of a need until that point but I was learning that I needed to have to keep up with everyone else.  For God’s sake I’d even signed up for Twitter. I had no clue how to use it but I was still floating around on there somewhere.

And so I had picked up a small rectangular box from a phone store, not even battling when the clearly bored clerk suggested a plan that was way over my head in complicated features just to allow as little conversation as possible. Jean looked as though he wanted to say something but ended up silent, instead eyeing the clerk warily and then looking to the phone in what perhaps could be seen as slight discomfort, as though I was being cheated. I could afford it anyway. Paychecks are such nice things.

And then the Christmas jumper I had selected.

That on its own is another wonder of this world. I still own it, I made sure of that. Sometimes I take it out just to show it off.

Christmas was Christmas and everywhere was bright, flashing and incredibly gaudy to try and fight the cold and wet wherever it could. City living still new, the amount of Santa Claus’ I saw would have confused any ten year old, along with the amount of candy I could tell was bursting with every E-number under this sun. Each store we passed played the same songs, a mixture of ‘Jingle Bells’, Action Aid and Michael Buble. We’d walk past one rendition of one to the tune of ‘Fairytale of New York’, only to meander our way into another to the plinking piano to indicate the start of the same serenade, and every time Jean would sing the drunken words under his breath and hope that no one but me could hear.

Of course, he was eventually distracted. More than once I had been forced to drag him away with his hand over my shoulder before he could begin his performance of, “It’s Christmas erve baybgh, hrm herr herm-mer her mer-ner,” catching the attention of more than one elderly shopper and last-minute father.

Eventually I dragged Jean into a shop.

It was comfortable, the door slightly low and I ducked underneath it, Jean following. Long and thin, stairs led up the left side with a beam of worm-eaten wood hanging low over the bottom step. I could imagine how many people had thwacked their head on it, and subconsciously reminded myself to be careful. Along the right side of the shop was a row of rather gaudy shirts reminiscent of something straight out of Hawaii Five-0 and to the left side a more tasteful collection of dresses styled with flared skirts and polka-dots. Dotted here and there were hats, belts, occasional sets of homemade jewellery.  It was certainly unusual, and as I walked up to the till hidden deep at the back of the store, the woman with her brilliant red hair in a carefully styled poodle cut, seemingly almost surprised to see anyone in her shop but still smiled politely.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice was light, and in my head I told myself what to say. I repeated the words.

“I, uh, I’v-vve rr… re-esser-r…”

The smile on her face was expectant. I just couldn’t do it. Jean’s fingers were suddenly in my palm and I felt them slip in tighter, grip, reassure. He slid up next to me, watched as I swallowed down my lax tongue.

How did they not suffer from my flaw? How could they not laugh at me when I had the cheek to laugh at Jean when he was unsure of himself? For God’s sake, I was a twenty-seven year old man and I couldn’t get myself to speak to anyone new without clamming up! How could they not see the Tom and Jerry humour, the Porky Pig st-dut-duh-duh-tutter?  Why was I the one to laugh when they could be so serious, so polite? How did they learn to be stoic like that when I just couldn’t help myself?

I had gotten used to it being easy; with Jean it was almost normal, I felt so easy, comfortable, and the words would flow almost uninhibited. But that was not what he was used to, not what the woman was expecting. And as he took over, a cushioning “Reserved something, I believe. ” Jean looked at me and finished with an easy question, nothing to suggest anything but a normal reaction. “That right?” I nodded, thankful for his save, awed by his consideration.

The woman, smiling gently about something between knowing and sympathy, headed behind a thick curtain. “Was it the jumper?”

I nodded, then hummed a yes. She lifted up the jumper, shaking it out once and then holding it as though it were an offering to the sun.  Jean squeezed my hand a bit tighter and from the corner of his eye I saw the words on his lips, almost silent, but did nothing.

“Oh God no. Marco, no.”

Oh God Marco _yes!_

I should have not have had as much fun as I did do looking through festive jumpers… but by _God_ is it a good idea, especially when it involved the one I’d found.

You see, this was not just any ordinary ugly Christmas jumper with a jolly Saint Nick on the front in terrible stitch. No! This was an ugly Christmas jumper with a jolly Saint Nick on the front in terrible stitch… but with moving eyes. Costing me way too much money was no deterrent from tracking the thing down in desperation and ending up with the last one in stock, of which the lady at the desk breathily reminded me several times in quick succession. For some reason she seemed happy to be rid of it.

As did Jean. The lady handed it to him whilst I paid and he held it as though it were woven with poisoned thread. Not knowing of the little trick that I kept close to my chest had lead him to look at the little pocket at the front of the jumper with an eyebrow raised in confusion.  Even as I thanked the lady and gently pried the item of clothing from his fingers, Jean kept his gaze firmly rooted on it, disgusted. We walked through the town, bustled through crowds as I lead him around.

I was attempting to find a decent place to eat. However, I was finding it rather difficult considering the time of year. Luckily, though, we stepped into a small, neat looking restaurant just as a small group left, and the young man at the seating desk looked thoroughly frustrated and worn. After blinking rapidly and shoving his curly hair back over his eyes he huffed and picked up a couple of menus.

Jean continued to stare at the jumper inside the bag.

“That thing is the ugliest piece of shit I’ve ever seen.” I laughed as I sat down, Jean doing the same opposite me. The menus were put between us. “Seriously, why? Why that? Couldn’t you find anything more…” he took a moment to think, “tasteful?”

I put the bag down on the floor, but not before stroking it rather possessively. “Nope,” I smirked, “I like it.”

“You’re kidding.” Jean deadpanned. I returned it. We took a moment to see who would break first, eyes unblinking. He broke first, sighing and rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. “You can’t actually be serious.”

“I am. And I’m wearing it.” His face fell in front of me, and so I picked up a menu and gently threw it over the table to him. “Th-this is an apology.”

With a quick glance around the room and then to the menu, he eventually relented, picking the thin sheet up and scanning it without looking up.

“Apology for what?”

I smiled smugly behind the glance at a particularly delicious sounding halloumi and Portobello mushroom burger. “Wearing it.”

That was the exact moment the same waiter as before swept around with a pen and notepad to his chest. He quickly shoved his hair behind his ear again, Jean leaning back in his seat and holding the menu far out in front of him.

“What can I get’cha?”

Jean’s eyes swept over the menu for a moment before deciding. “Coke and a butterfly burger and chips, ta.”

 The waiter nodded politely. “How hot d’ya want the sauce?”

Jean took a long moment to stare at the page before looking up with a questioning gaze at the waiter. “Uh, very?”

“Are you certain?” An eyebrow was raised but the Jean only nodded in determination before the waiter turned to me. His gaze seemed knowing. “And you?”

“Same, but m-mm-mild. Than-nks.” He wrote down the order before picking up the menus from our hands and scampering off behind the counter, shoving the small slip of paper on an exposed kitchen grill and looking over to our table. I leant forward to Jean, trying to keep my voice low. “I think you m-made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

I pulled my chair closer to the table and quickly sneaking a peek into the open kitchen. I waited until neither man looked in our direction. “They’re making bets.”

He frowned. “They’re not.” I nodded back, looking over his shoulder just in time to see the waiter place a few crumpled bills onto a small silver tray, a chef doing the same. I watched them, waiting for their heads to turn away, and as they did I tapped Jean’s arm. He looked over with me. “Holy fuck…” His voice drifted off as he saw another chef place a couple of crumpled bills on the pile along with the others, talking to the waiter and pursing her lips to hide a smile. ”They don’t think I can handle the heat.”

I had to laugh, pushing myself back in the chair as I shook.

“What?” Jean glared. “Don’t laugh. Just because I’m French doesn’t mean I can’t do spicy food.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m tough as shit.”

My face gave away my concern. Jean opened his mouth wide, clearly betrayed.

“I didn’t s-ssay anything!” I replied.

“You were totally going to though.”

“I wasn’t!”

He huffed. “Fine. Fine.” He leant over the table, finger outstretched and punctuating every word. “But I’ll have you know that I can handle hot things extremely well. I don’t follow the trope, you know.”

The waiter returned with glasses and two opened bottles of Coke which he placed on the desk. I couldn’t stop laughing, and Jean thanked him for the both of us.

“I just realised that you laugh a lot.” Jean poured his drink, taking a sip. “And smile. I didn’t really notice it…” He drifted off, taking another gulp. “Like today, you’ve laughed loads. Has something good happened?”

I hummed. I suppose it was rather ambiguous but, to be honest, I wasn’t too sure. This was nice, the fact that I had slept the night before was nice. Jean slipped the notepad out from a pocket just after my small noise and wrote something down quickly. I cocked an eyebrow just in time for him to look up.

“Had an idea.”

I nodded. He tilted the notepad towards him so that I couldn’t see, furrowing his eyebrows as he jotted something down. He would write for a few long seconds before pausing, studying the words and occasionally flicking a harsh line. Sometimes I thought that he was getting rid of something. Other times it felt as though he were joining the dots with one definitive motion.

After ten minutes I just happened to glance around to see the waiter returning to our table with a plate in either hand, and a set of cutlery wrapped in a napkin huddled casually under his elbow. He carefully placed it down, eyeing Jean in particular with a slight expectation before glancing feverishly at me, some semblance of a look that may perhaps have been translated as ‘Good luck, you’re going to need it.’ Jean slipped his notepad away again and picked up the plump burger, chicken and lettuce dripping over the edges, and with a quick glance over to me, began to eat.

He took a large bite, putting the already collapsing bundle of grilled chicken, bread and salad back onto the place, when his face caught alight. And I would like to say that I’m not even exaggerating. Jean Kirschtein, the palest person I had ever met besides Levi, was straining against the red blush forcing its way first up his neck, then blooming out on his cheeks. A light perspiration touched his forehead. The waiter nodded in detached understanding, grabbing the notes from the countertop of the kitchen whilst the first chef slammed the tongs he was holding onto the griddle.

That was the moment Jean began to cry. Full out tears that just kept flowing swept down his face and he was helpless to stop them. He wiped his hands on a nearby napkin before rubbing his to his eyes, collecting tears.

 _Big_ mistake. Whatever the chef had put on his burger was lethal. In an instant his eyes, too, were swollen and bloodshot. Around the mouthful of burger he whined, shaking his hands before reaching out for his drink.

Where had the calm and collected ‘Jean Kirschtein: Despondent Author’ gone?

Hopefully, alongside wherever the ‘Marco Bodt: Understanding Professional’ had run off to.

A few tables around us had looked over and begun to choking behind their hands. That was not the most outstanding noise. It was me, almost collapsing cackling like a madman, throwing my untouched napkin over to Jean so that he could wipe away the tears and other unpleasantries streaming down his face.

“You’re sthu-th a dimck Mnar-thco!” He managed to talk around the food, still undecided as to whether he should swallow it or spit it into the tainted napkin.  After another swallow of his drink he breathed heavily, fanning his mouth, wrist limp. “Haa-ah that’s fucking—“

I leant over the table to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead with my hand, running my fingers down the side of his face to dry the river of tears. The waiter appeared again with a glass of water and a handful of napkins, but said nothing. I nodded and smiled up at him before taking a few and wiping Jean’s face with them.

“I’m not a child. I can wipe my own damn face.”

“Y-you’ll irritate your skin.” The people on the tables around us started to look back to their food. I continued to smile, occasionally snickering at Jean’s swollen eyes, pink-slapped cheeks and dried lips. “Go wash your hands.”

He gave me a sardonic look but said nothing. Jean stood with his arms stretched out in front of him and eyed the room to try and find the bathroom before scurrying off behind a door swinging in and out of an oak doorframe.

I looked over to Jean’s plate. His burger had a reasonable chunk taken out of it, most of the filling spilled onto the plate. He couldn’t finish it, that’s for sure. So I probably made a strange decision. Studying the bite from a distance I picked up my own burger and took a bite in, hopefully, a similar size to his.

The aim was to keep his prised masculinity intact. I rather liked it.

My bite was slightly neater than his but it didn't exactly matter. I put the burger back down on the plate, trying not to choke on the large bite of meat and bread which, whilst tasting pretty good, would have been easier consumed in smaller doses. I swallowed it down with a large gulp of Coke and pulled a bit of the salad out from underneath the bun before switching the plates.

Of course mine would be significantly less spicy. All I could hope was that his tastebuds had been frazzled and that he wouldn’t notice, or believe that he had gotten used to the spice.

Jean returned a minute later still looking red but less swollen. His mouth was open and as soon as he sat down the glass of water was emptied. “I’m on fire. Why didn’t they tell me it was going to be that hot?”

“He did try.” Jean groaned, gulping down most of his drink before looking at the burger. Fear.

I picked up the burger sitting in front of me, trying hard not to laugh or think about if I would be able to cope. Taking another napkin from the small pile left so graciously for him, Jean wrapped up the burger so that it was almost completely covered and took the smallest, softest bite. It felt as though he might back out and run away at any moment, the horror of a few chillies frightful. I tried not to choke as I took a small bite of the burger that was previously his.

It was most definitely hot. My whole mouth was tingling and maybe the flavour was drowned out by the wave of heat, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I took a few seconds to settle before deciding that Jean was, in fact, an adorable wimp.

“It doesn’t burn as bad this time.”

I laughed. Jean’s head tilted, confused.

“You’re doing it again! How do you find everything so fucking funny?”

I didn’t stop, learning from Jean’s mistake and picking up a paper towel to wipe at my eyes and rub through my hands. Shrugging my shoulders seemed the appropriate response as I picked at the meal.  

“How can you laugh so much? I’m serious here.” He leant back, reaching back into the pocket to pick out the notepad. His face was hardened into a scowl, staring at me. In his right hand he twiddled the pen in expectation. It felt like an interview. “Why do you laugh?”

“I don’t kn-now.” I took another bite of the burger. “Just a rr-reaction.”

Jean wrote something down on his notepad, idly picking up a few chips on his place and putting them in his mouth. “’Kay, so,” he swallowed them, “what I want to know it why. Like, why you laugh. ‘Cause especially today you’ve been doing it a whole lot.”

Perhaps my expression was despondent, but it only too him a few seconds to correct his words.

"What are y-you doing?"

"Following a lead, what does it look like." He took another bite of burger. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m not asking you to try and figure it out on your own.” His voice was softer, casual. Between tapping the pen to the paper and leaving little black dots he ate with his left hand, occasionally running his tongue over his lips and across his teeth. “You might be able to pick apart a man from fifty feet away but you’re quite frankly terrible at your own feelings. So in the interest of helping you follow the strict ‘man code’ laid down for us by our patriarchal forefathers, I will attempt to coax out any emotion to leave you an empty husk perfect for leading a kamikaze mission or having loveless sex with a woman—“

“I’m gay—“

“That only counts in my lead if it’s meant in its archaic form. Now,” and for the first time today I saw Jean smile. It was lopsided and goofy, lips swollen and eyes still puffy, but it was there. The pen was rested on the page, half of his food gone. I picked at my own casually, looking over to see the waiter begrudgingly hand the few notes to the second chef, who took them off his hands with a bright nod.

Something new had overtaken Jean. Something had caught in his mind and had stuck with him. He was different, unable to become distracted, and mesmerising. In a few moments I had witnessed a jump, unseen by my eyes, from someone clueless to someone that had let inspiration overcome them completely.

Was I that inspiration?

“I want you to tell me, Marco Bodt, what it feels like to make a grown man forget about his failing career and heartburn simply by laughing at him until he can no longer be angry at anything.”

**

The evening dark, the sky outside unusually bright and if I could have brought myself to look hard enough the possibility of seeing a few stars was tangible. My apartment was silent save for the low sounds of a happy cat, and the occasional tap of keys as I changed a few words, cut or added where necessary. By my desk was the bag, in the kitchen half of a burger that I couldn’t finish and probably never would due to the fact that I could still feel a ticklish warmth at the back of my throat. After a few hours I received a text. My new, rather lovely and sleek phone brightened up with the message appearing on its screen.

**From Jean: Could you check something through for me?**

From the desk where I was working, Scout purring away wetly on my lap, I touched the screen and tapped a reply with one finger.

**To Jean: Go ahead and email it over. I’ll take a look :-)**

I turned on the internet, typing in the website address and logging in. On the third refresh of the page I received a document titled ‘Fuck you Marco Bodt I know you switched the burgers. You’ve flushed my masculinity; I hope you realise that.’

With a quick laugh I opened it up—and received something different to what I was expecting.

Perhaps I wanted to see something more Jean-like, or maybe it was the focus I had become so unsure of seeing. But this was something I had never seen in his writing, a style I tended to crave when I read but never quite got. It was short but lithe—and yet I knew the weight of the words, picked up the subtle hints, quaint acronyms hiding behind their obscurity. This was the first time I had read something of his that hit close to home. He used himself as a centre in a way I hadn’t experienced him do before. And it left me breathless.

****

****

**_The Laughing Man_ **

_By Jean Kirschtein_

_Being part of an industry focused on disasters and problems has led me to become rather cynical. It is not something I ever thought I would become, but perhaps long suspected was an integral part of what I do. Previous bosses and colleagues I have witnessed go through the same experiences I have all tend to collapse into the despair of their job, and give themselves completely to the long hours and the gruelling schedules we have learnt to know as commonplace. I, too, have also become a willing victim. This is most likely due to the unfortunate fact that my work has a capacity to be rather joyless. The most pleasure I ever seem to gain from my writing is through the rare experience of someone who truly deserves their comeuppance receiving it wholly, and that appears to be almost as rare as a smile in the office. Therefore witnessing someone in a similar field to me continuing to shine through what I and many others fail to is most definitely a rather outstanding feat._

_I recently came into contact through work with a man who would soon become my editor. Being a man of few yet important words, many people, myself included, thought that perhaps his persistent calm was a result of a copious amount of herbal tea and a deity’s level of inner peace and satisfaction._

_Later I came to realise that this was far from the truth. He is tumultuous. A month on from meeting him and I have learnt that on my hands I have, in fact, several people all working together in some unbelievable cacophony of souls—and yet they work! He is a range; from taciturn leader and beyond the horizon of the distant piteous and worrisome nature still deeply rooted into the back of his mind, he eventually results in being a completed body strengthened by rounded understanding and an easily plucked sense of humour._

_In those few, short weeks I cannot remember a time in my adult life where I have heard so much laughter caused by so little. And it is not just at jokes and situational anecdotes, no. It’s anything and everything—and this especially includes the times where it is perhaps conventionally unwelcome._

_Yet I cannot say that I do not appreciate its presence. Times where I have made mistakes, been low and despondent, have all been attacked by his misguided funny bone; and it has honestly led me to change how I think about laughter and what its uses mean._

_The times I have spent with him have only proved that our minds could not be more different. I have long known that my natural reaction to many things is a standoffish frown that turns many people away. Yet my cultivated stoicism seems far more outlandish than his inappropriate laughs and his uncharted smiles that come from nowhere. His classically rude reactions never offend or displease. I cannot dislike his attitude when it appears in this form._

_This man has left no doubt in my mind that to hear someone laugh in a certain way and in a place and time, in a mind-frame one would never expect, is refreshing. In moments where the psyche begins to slip into a shaded spot, the uncertainty of an offset reaction is just the thing to bring around the realisation that the world is simply a gathering in which people share and receive; feeding and being fed by the consequences of the conversations with those one surrounds oneself with. To have someone so perpetually ready to impart their happiness without condition is remarkably unique in both my profession and in society._

_It may take me many years to contentedly look back at times where I have been despondent, and I cannot also say with certainty that I ever will. However his reaction seems proof enough that the worst things in the world can be sorted when looked on in a positive light. His laughter, so undoubtedly not carved through a laugh-at attitude, could never be taken at face value. It is a gift, a lifeline when the world seems to offer little happiness. Seeing the response so lacking in a faithless world—a joyful, carefree antiphon— so easily given by this man, leaves me unrestrainedly believing that with time I could, perhaps, also see the world as something filled with the endless, unbound amusement I unequivocally admire so greatly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, back to this! 
> 
> I don't think I can tell you how sorry I am. It's been somewhere around two months and that's bad, really bad. Everything went down all at once and I had to switch to two different courses at college so now I'm a year behind everyone else and quickly facing the prospect that I'll spend a year alone at college without friends before I go to uni alone, if I don't fuck up that is. This on top of some other shit has left me a bit... despondent, I suppose, and I've ended up relapsing into some old bad habits that I'm now attempting to rework out of myself but mostly failing pretty miserably right now because they're comforting and I'm a sardonic bitch. On top of this I handed some coursework that is based around the stereotypes of fan-fiction writing in to a teacher who then decided that I'm the best thing she's seen all year and has decided to send part of it off to a newspaper, and is also encouraging me to write an actual fucking book and holy shit I did not sign up for this. So I have that wot she be tracking me on, then IT coursework and my three essay subjects and then my fucked-up shit too .
> 
> However, I have the next week off of college so I'm going to try and get the next two chapters done, with the aim being the 18th chapter to come out on November 5th, which is my 18th birthday. 
> 
> I'm freaking out so hard about being an official adult. Haaaah ₍₍ (̨̡ ‾᷄ᗣ‾᷅ )̧̢ ₎₎


	17. the author is a large, smelly pile of shit and I am very sorry because jfc you didn't deserve that woah just beat me around the back with a plank of wood, please, just put me out of my misery! also because damn i am shit this is soo shit holy crap im crap

Not gonna lie, I could've had a kid in the time that I've spent faffing around from the last chapter... holy shit. 

Yeah, really sorry. I'm a dumb. Shit came up and I suck at being a functional human being. I'm] embarrassed by just posting this after such a long while. I'm trying but damn I can't push this story out and it's because I've backed myself into a dead end writing it, but I know that I've just gone in the wrong direction and I want to fix it.

Here's the gist: I'm super unhappy with the large majority of this. It's just time and the fact that I'm older and saltier and generally a more horrible person than ever, and I decided that I'm shit. I had a story. It sucked. I'm fixing it. Well, I have fixed it. Kinda. The long and short is that I'm basically pulling the whole thing down to cut out everything that I hate. There's gonna be a few (a lot, D, don't fucking lie) of scenes that I chuck, and a lot of new content that should have been in there the first time around. There was a story and I kinda buried it in filler and ugh yeah. Never let me do that every again, please. I've just learnt a lot during the time I've not been writing this and I need to do better.

So! Chapters are staying up for the sake of it. Idk whether it'd be better to just faux-abandon this and start 'le story' 2.0, or to just replace chapters here and be like "Hulloo, new thingy check out pls uwu!" 

Ya'll probably don't care. I get that. I suck hardcore. Ignore me. I'm just doing it because I feel like a guilty piece of shit. Okay, fun. You can bash me. Call me an asshole. I pretty much lied about abandoning this. Sorry. I deserve that.


	18. NEWS!!

News! Yes, alright!

Hi again. It's been almost six months since my last update. It doesn't feel it, to be honest. A lot of stuff has gone down for me and most of it hasn't been great, but I really can't give this one up and, I'm not going to lie, it's kept me going at some points.

So, just a little update... I plan to have the first chapter up by mid-January. So Friday the 15th 2016. Be warned that the first few chapters will not be very different. I'm keeping quite a lot of that but just tweaking, removing bits, making the whole thing feel a little better for me. From then on it's not so much diverting, but concentrating? I hope that that makes sense. It's also taken a rather radical turn in my notes which isn't what I first planned when Stutter became a thing in 2014 (nearly two years ago, shit) but I'm really liking it and I'm hoping that it's good and that you'll all like it too.

ALSO!!!! I am going to put this new one as a new work, but because of that I'd like to give it a new name.

If worse comes to worst, I'll put Stutter 2.0 for a short while until I figure something out, but I'd like this to be a bit of a fresh start. If any of you have ideas, I'd be totally up for hearing them. It's currently called "sakljstoing" in my documents and I'm not really feeling it. Having a name for it would be fabulous.

ALSO AGAIN!! I want to say thank-you to all of you that commented on here (and also on Tumblr) and just being so amazingly kind and wonderful about this. I know I haven't replied, and I am so super sorry about that because I really hate not thanking you all. So I want to let you know that your comments have really kept me chugging on and kept me wanting to complete this. It's been more helpful than I can really say. So thank-you.

 

I'll put my [Tumblr](http://tis-i-the-gr8-papyrus.tumblr.com/) here for y'all just in case you want to bully me into getting this out because I will try my hardest but I'm also a wuss and I might chicken out lol.

just fyi- this is the penultimate update. The next one will be a direct link to the fic and from then on there will be no more updates.

 

 

I just want to say now, to everyone who has ever read this, commented, kudos'd, bookmarked it, whatever.... thank-you so, so much. From the bottom of my heart, really. You have all been wonderful and too kind to me. Posting this was one of the best decisions I ever made and I am so glad that you like it. It makes me extremely happy, like, probably too happy.  I've had such a wonderful experience writing this, and even though it's changing, I hope that whatever I do next makes you react in the same way, because it's honestly one of the best feelings ever. Thank-you for reading this and being such wonderful and amazing and supportive people every step of the way. 

See you on January 15th :)


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